


Caught in the Middle

by Mallorn



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inappropriate Behavior, Inappropriate Use of the Force, mostly smut though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Tarkin assigns you the task of being Krennic’s assistant and keeping the Director happy to make sure the Death Star is finished without delay.  Being caught in the middle between two powerful men isn’t always as exciting as it may seem, but much of the time, it is.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This will be mostly smut, but with a bit more plot and feels than my previous stories. Weekly updates, estimated story length 10-ish chapters. Tags, characters and pairings will be added as needed. The first chapter is mostly build-up.
> 
> Mainly a Krennic/Reader story, with quite a bit of Tarkin/Reader as well. Thrawn has a chapter of his own, and while Darth Vader gets a part of the fun as well, his screen time is limited.

Your heart fills with awe as the battle station grows slowly, gradually filling out the viewport as you approach. It has been the stuff of legends for years, the superweapon that will be the guarantee of peace and order for all. So soon now, only a couple of months until it is finished and a new, friendly moon will lend its aid to stability and hope for the galaxy. You and your classmates count yourself lucky for the opportunity to serve here. It is a greater honour than any of you have any right to hope for and indeed a mystery that Governor Tarkin has chosen to accept a group of newcomers, fresh from the academy.

The docking bay is enormous, the sheer scale of everything unbelievable. You are taken into a reception area the size of a training field. A sea of white is before you, troops lined up to greet the newly arrived. Your heart fills with pride. Soon, you will be one of them, one of the station’s loyal staff, doing your small part for the greater good.

In front of the troops, three men stand, not the expected two. Governor Tarkin is there, of course, staring at everyone down his nose, scrutinizing you all with his piercing gaze. You wouldn’t have it any other way. His standards are the highest and you can only hope to one day be worthy of his notice, if not his praise. Until then, you are prepared to show your undying loyalty daily by fulfilling your duties impeccably, doing honour to your uniform.

 “You need not fear me,” he concludes his brief welcoming speech. “I may be a strict taskmaster, but I am fair. Carry out your duties, with due respect, and you will have favour with me.”

His eyes scan the crowd and you grow an inch when his gaze falls on you, as if his simply acknowledging your existence is praise enough. The thought is silly, but it sticks. This man impersonates the Empire for you and it is your duty and desire to make him proud of you.

Beside him, and surrounded by his own honour guard – contrasting the Governor, who doesn’t need one to look imposing – is Director Krennic, even more handsome in person than in the holos. His cape flutters slightly as he takes a step forward, and you feel an answering flutter in your stomach.

His speech is a stark contrast to the Governor’s dry professionalism. His eyes are alight with passion as he speaks, delivering a brilliant exposé over the station’s development and the impressive scientific effort soon to be crowned with its successful completion. He constructs a dream with his words, building anticipation in his audience until the finale comes like a massive release. Everyone seem to hold their breath as he says what all are waiting for.

“We will restore peace and order to the galaxy.”

The roar from the troops is deafening. The Governor seems to think so, too.

You have heard this phrase so many times, uttered by that cruel but sensual mouth that belongs to the man with the most innocent blue eyes you have ever seen. Seeing Director Krennic in person is quite different. Nothing could have prepared you for his charisma, the way every word in his famous speech seems aimed at you personally. How his gaze hits you just for a second, and ignites an impulse of sheer want. He drags it off of you and moves on to the next person in the enthralled crowd while you just stand there, starstruck.

This is not the moment for unsuitable thoughts, you chide yourself and force yourself to eye the Director’s cape without dropping your professional stance. Rumours say it is the exact same length as Lord Vader’s, a fact that, for what you’ve heard, would have been the end to both the Director and his project, if not to the Governor himself for harbouring such an impudent creature.

It couldn’t possibly be true, and it isn’t. Director Krennic is a tall and stately man, but the ghastly Vader towers over him, as over everyone else. It is best to keep the distance from the mysterious force user, you decide; only Governor Tarkin seems to tolerate his presence, if not precisely welcoming it.

The black-clad giant strides to Tarkin’s side, intruding on his personal space. The Governor holds his ground, unflinching, and your admiration for him grows even further. He purses his lips in disapproval but says nothing. Lord Vader’s deep voice echoes in the hall.

“Kneel.”

You glance quickly to the sides and see your comrades do likewise. This is not part of the protocol you have studied with so much diligence and effort. Your gaze turns to Tarkin, who nods curtly. You all obey, momentarily dropping to your knees. Nobody told you to bow your head, but it seems to be the right thing to do.

From the corner of your eye, you see how the dark lord moves between the lines of kneeling ensigns, briefly laying his hand on top of each head. Sometimes he utters a short phrase, with others, he just stands and breathes. You feel very small as he stops in front of you. Your gaze is firmly trained at his boots, heart beating so hard it threatens to break loose from your chest.

His heavy hand on your head makes you dizzy and you both hope for a word from him and fear it. If only he would move on sooner. If only he wouldn’t notice you. Is that what he’s doing? Assessing all of you? Weeding out traitors, perhaps? Oh no, is this what it is? You haven’t consciously done anything against the Empire in your entire life, but what if you are somehow tainted anyway? What if you aren’t worthy?

He says nothing, but his breathing becomes a wild, rushing river in your ears, filling your head until the roar finally quietens, spreading like a blanket over your thoughts. There is only fear now, but of a purer kind, less chaotic. You only need to do your duty. That is all. You can do it. This is a comforting feeling.

The sense of fear loosens its grip as soon as the dark lord continues along the lines. It leaves you with an odd feeling of emptiness.

***

Your duties on the battle station are confusing. Rather than manning a unit in the communications central as expected, you are assigned to the advanced weapons research department, where you run errands for its charismatic Director. For two weeks it’s exciting to simply be in his presence. He doesn’t wear the famed cape in his daily work, but there’s more than enough to look at without it, such as his gloved hands clenching in frustration after a meeting with Tarkin. Or the arrogance and power that emanate from him as he stands with lifted chin to sneer at anyone who displeases him. You wish that he would look at you more often, and dream of a day when you’d be bold enough to let your fingers graze his as you hand him a document.

There is that memorable moment, when he asks you to fasten his cape for him. He is standing so close, and you notice your hands trembling. He sees it too.

“Take care.” It’s barely a whisper, but the gaze that accompanies these words threatens to devour you. You back away, swallowing heavily. He leaves without another word. The cape swishes and your toes curl.

After three weeks, the novelty has worn off. The opportunity to stare at Director Krennic to your heart’s content isn’t enough to satisfy your ambitions in the long run. This isn’t what you trained for, it’s not a position where you can do your best to serve the Empire.

It takes several days more until you’ve mustered the courage to approach the Governor. He’s outside his office, just returning.

“Sir?”

“Ensign.”

“I… I’m sorry to disturb you sir, but I would like to request a meeting with you.”

“Is this a personal matter? The staff department would be a more suitable choice.”

“It concerns my duties under your command, sir.”

“I see. I prefer to deal with problems immediately as they occur. Follow me.”

He holds the door to his office open for you, but you enter with a sense of trepidation. He clearly isn’t happy with this visit, and you almost apologize and run out of there. Only you can’t even move when he’s standing in front of you, his gaze boring into you.

“Well, Ensign. I am waiting.”

“I… I regret to sound as if I’m complaining, sir, but I trained to become a skilled communications officer. And now, all I am is some mockery of a secretary, required to carry out duties anyone could perform with no training at all.”

“You are mistaken. Your services are already bearing the foreseen fruit. I do understand if the Director is grating on your nerves, however.” He smirks.

He isn’t even listening to what you’re saying and the annoying smile gives you the courage you need to state it to his face.

“With all due respect, sir, I request to be transferred!”

“Denied.” The sharp rejection echoes like a blaster-shot and he walks around you, hands clasped on his back as he lectures you. “I shall not need to remind you that we find ourselves at war. Finishing the DS-1 is of utmost importance and every man and woman is expected to do their best. You are an officer of the Empire, and I expect you to act as such.”

“Sir!” His commanding voice makes you stand at attention.

“You,” he emphasises, touching a digit to your chest, “were specifically chosen for this duty, to accompany and unburden Director Krennic during the last stages of completing his project. Once the battle station is fully operational, you will be free to pursue the career of your choice, on your own or, stationed with the Director.”

At the last phrase, your eyes dart to his.

“The Director can be quite charming, I have heard,” Tarkin answers your unvoiced question. “I have yet to experience this myself, having only witnessed the less favourable sides of his personality. Yet, I need him, and I need him relaxed enough to put his mind to use for the sake of peace. Allocate a year to this assignment, and you will have your freedom.”

“But why me? You must have plenty of others who could do this; there must be someone who knows him already, whom he likes to work with. He’s barely talked with me, except for the strictly necessary communication.”

“Indeed? Regardless, his work is progressing well and your presence is accountable for it.”

The words of praise make you blush despite the coldness with which he delivers the fact.

“You were chosen for him specifically,” he continues, “based on your personality. Your scores were deemed to be the most compatible with Director Krennic. Furthermore, your Academy records praise you for being hardworking, clever, and eager to please.”

He puts his knuckle under your chin, forcing you to look up. Holding your gaze with his steely eyes, he continues. “Your group leader has specifically pointed out that you are very… obedient.”

The last ‘t’ seems to echo in the room, his words pronounced clearly and with a sharp edge to them.

Your gaze darts between his face and the ceiling as you desperately try to gather your thoughts. There is logic to his words, and the way he puts it, your current assignment isn’t as useless as you believed. If this duty is indeed something you have been carefully chosen for, is it then your place to question your superior’s judgement? You refuse to think of a certain white cape.

“Do you agree to serve me and the Empire as Director Krennic’s assistant?”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes soften immediately. As he removes his hand from your chin, his knuckles run gently across your cheek, catching an annoying tear of frustration at the corner of your eye.

“You can do this,” he says in a low, suggestive voice that holds you as captive as any physical grip. “Success will be rewarded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm excited to start posting this new story that I've been working on a little at a time for some weeks now. I hope you enjoyed the beginning :-)


	2. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the best intentions have catastrophic results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consensual but bad sex ahead (sorry… there’ll be plenty of good smut to make up for it in the next chapter)

Tarkin’s reassurance that you are in fact serving precisely where he wants you does wonders for your motivation. Director Krennic’s mood swings matter little to you now, you just do your best to anticipate them and offer him whatever he seems to need. Surprisingly often, this is simply caf. Or a willing ear when he wants to rant about the engineers’ incompetence, Tarkin’s impossible demands or some mad but brilliant scientist that he calls an old friend but has a decidedly complicated relationship with.

Today, he’s in the mood for honesty. While you’re on your way to deliver a message, he corners you and backs you against the wall, intruding on your space and forcing you to retreat until you can go no further. His entire being is agitated, his eyes flashing and his breath is hot against your skin as he hisses: “Girl, you may not have figured it out yet, but I know exactly what you’re here for.”

“Director?” His outburst puzzles you. Of course you know what you’re doing. “I’m your assistant. I’ll gladly provide any service you require of me.”

This makes him grin and he nods fervently. “You know that much? Good. Be nice with me and I’ll play along. You’ll get your splendid evaluation and the career boost you’ve been promised.”

Your eyes widen in astonishment. How does he know? Surely the Governor didn’t tell him the details of your agreement?

“I see I hit the nail.” He’s pleased. “I’m not as careless as some uptight sticklers for protocol think.”

“I will never underestimate you, sir.” You mean it, this would be far too dangerous to even consider trying. “But why would you help me satisfy Governor Tarkin? What do you get out of this?”

He smirks and takes one step closer. Your bodies are touching now and a drop of sweat trickles down your spine. His chest expands and inflates against yours. He angles his hips and leans into you the slightest amount. Is that what you think it is? It can’t be, can it? A swift snap of his hips and he backs off, standing now at normal talking distance.

“I will get precisely what Tarkin predicted,” he states. “Your obedience. You’re going to do what I want, and keep me a loyal and productive worker. Now, this concurs with my own goals – I do want to see my precious completed. So far I have only heard her hum in my dreams, purr as she prepares to deal out her deadly assault. I need to see it, now. Your company is an added perk.”

A mock salute, a roguish smirk and he is gone, leaving you to sort out what just happened. You don’t understand it, but you crave more.

***

The following day the Director is all nerves. The first cup you bring him is cold, the next one too hot. You blow on it, watching patiently as he tries out one welcoming pose, then the other. Chair this way or that? Lifted chin or smile? A firm handshake, or a generous gesture with both hands, as if inviting the entire group of dignitaries into his embrace?

“Here, sir,” you tell him, handing him the cup at last. “It should be okay now.”

“Nothing ever is,” he snipes. “What is this pile of paper doing here?” He gestures, annoyed, at an innocent stack of documents lying on a shelf because he put them there the other day.

“It’ll be all right, sir,” you say. “You will make a splendid presentation and they will all be impressed. As they should be. Who is it this time?”

“Some delegation the Governor wants to show off my creation to.”

“They will see who knows the station best.” You smile reassuringly.

“Indeed.” He gestures towards the closet and you retrieve his cape. His eyes gleam as he goes over his speech while you fasten the cape around his shoulders.

You never accompany him on occasions such as this, but, apparently on a whim, he crooks his finger.

“Come,” he says. “You’ve never been given a proper tour.”

“Thank you, sir. There was one for our group when I just arrived, but I’m honoured to be invited now. If you’re sure it’s appropriate. I don’t know if the Governor would approve…”

“To hell with the Governor. I have the right to bring my assistant wherever I choose.” His smile is warm and confident. You would follow him anywhere, even if Tarkin’s image remains at the back of your head, telling you that this would be unwise.

He offers you his elbow and you take it. An entire crowd of butterflies flutter in your belly as you walk with him. His smile is dazzling as he greets the delegation and then introduces you. The visitors look somewhat surprised but smile politely. Governor Tarkin stares icily at the two of you and discreetly calls you to the side when the Director takes the lead and begins the tour.

“This is not your place,” the Governor hisses.

“I’m sorry, sir. The Director insisted.”

“I see.” He ponders this. “You had better follow then. Keep your distance.”

During the rest of the visit you trail behind the delegation, making sure to stay out of everyone’s way at the same time as not missing a minute of the Director’s excursion. You begin to understand his enthusiasm for his creation – the battle station really is a wonder of architecture and engineering, and its weapons’ capacity mind-boggling. You are familiar with the technical specifications, it’s just so much more interesting to hear it from Director Krennic.

His personal charisma becomes a super-nova when he talks about his project. That passionate gaze should be on you. He could tear your clothes off with it, make you do anything he wanted. If he would just look at you like that.

Instead, he talks with the dignitaries and laughs generously, obviously relishing his moment of glory. He prances about, graciously accepting the words of praise at the end of the tour.

You are not invited to the talks that follow in the afternoon, nor the dinner, Tarkin has made sure of that. But afterwards, they conjure in the Director’s office and the Governor’s aide informs you sourly that your presence is wanted.

“Fetch the brandy,” Krennic shouts as he sees you, and everyone applauses. They have clearly have plenty of drink already. “The Corellian one,” he adds as you leave. Your return with the bottles is greeted with equal enthusiasm and you’re impressed with the Director’s social talents. Who would have thought this group of people could be so cheerful. You pour drink after drink into more glasses than you care to count, fetching bottle after bottle until it’s time for the guests to leave. You’re on Director Krennic’s arm again, beaming happily as goodbyes are said.

The visit is a success in everyone’s eyes but Tarkin’s. The dignitaries have barely left, all smiles and impressed exclamations, when the Governor walks into the Director´s office. You can hear them through the door. Or rather, Krennic can be heard cursing. Tarkin is icily calm as always, at least he is when he exits fifteen minutes later, closing the door behind him with a distinct snap, his equivalent of a door slammed shut. His movements are measured and exact and he passes you without so much as a glance.

You wait for the Director to call on you, but he doesn’t, and eventually you go to him uninvited. It is strange what a couple of minutes can do to a man. With the visitors, he was a charming host, boasting his success and all the advantages of his creation. Now, he is pacing like a caged animal.

“Sir?”

“That bastard!” he exclaims. “Tarkin has fucking tried to undermine my authority since day one and now he has the audacity to say he’s in charge here.”

“Everyone knows you are,” you say, trying to soothe him. He reeks with too much alcohol. “You are a brilliant architect.” You step close to him. “Everyone knows this.”

“At least you do,” he mumbles as his arms go around your waist. “At least you are true to me.” His hands go lower, to your rear.

“Always,” you say, wrapping your hands around his neck in return. You feel his arousal against you. He stares at you with those blue eyes, gaze slightly unsteady. It’s far from the passion you longed for, but you will take what you can get. His mouth twitches a little and he bows his head as if he’s going to – . He turns away suddenly.

“No, this isn’t the time,” he slurs.

“Please,” you beg, sliding up to him again. “I’m here for you. Please use me.” This is the chance you’ve been waiting for to fulfil your ultimate task and obey the Governor’s unspoken command.

The Director looks at you again and this time his eyes have darkened. The greed you see in his expression ignites a hunger in you far beyond the call of duty. You recognize the will to own and keep and withhold from everyone else. This is what you want, too. The urge to submit hits you like a blaster bolt.

You bend over his desk at the slightest nudge to the small of your back, unfastening your trousers as you go. Krennic takes an eternity to free himself of clothing, but then he is behind you, driving into you with more accuracy than you’d think possible for a man in his state.

It is glorious. Each thrust seems to impart you with some of his power. Your body is on fire and you moan every time he hits your cervix, until it suddenly, much too quickly, becomes too much. His telling you to ‘take it, bloody tart’, should arouse you, but for some reason his grunting only puts you off. You say nothing, of course, and he doesn’t notice.

You are jostled uncomfortably against the desk as he continues to push into you and when his hand touches your clit roughly it is almost painful. You moan louder, hoping for him to finish quickly. It works. With a last loud grunt and a ‘fuck’ he slumps against your back. He staggers clumsily to the sofa and you leave him like that, snoring with his dick hanging out. You ought to spare his dignity, but you can’t bear to stay. It is not the proudest moment of your career.

That night it takes a long time to fall asleep, although there’s no reason for it. You and Director Krennic have no feelings for each other and this is hardly the first time you had an unsatisfying encounter with a new partner. Besides, you have done nothing but your duty. You should be proud of yourself, and yet you feel awful.

***

The next morning, Director Krennic doesn’t want to see you. Nor the one after that. He communicates in one-syllable words and seems to make a point of not giving you any attention whatsoever beyond that. His needs and wants are communicated into the air, as if it’s only by chance you are there to hear them.

His temper worsens over the course of the next couple of days and he is constantly angry and agitated. Perhaps this is not so strange as his diet appears to consist at large of painkillers and excessive amounts of caffeine. He never talks to you when you bring him all those cups of caf during the day, only stares wild-eyed as he takes the mug. He gulps the drink down, winces, then gestures for you to leave.

There’s occasionally alcohol, too, on late evenings when he sits poring over the station’s schematics. He doesn’t appear to get much work done – the plans always look the same. You hate seeing him like this, and yet you feel helpless to try to do anything about it. Your job is to do as he says, and you do, although it breaks your heart.

You never want to look at a bottle of brandy again.

***

Eventually Governor Tarkin calls you into his office. You have feared this, and yet you almost feels relieved when it happens.

“Ensign,” he says in that serious voice that is reprehension in itself, “need I remind you of the purpose you serve on the DS-1?”

“No, sir. I am here to keep Director Krennic happy.”

“You are here to ensure his productivity. Krennic’s emotional status is of no concern to me as long as he can function in his capacity as Director.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how are you coping with this task, Ensign?”

“Eh… I’m sorry sir, I’m having some difficulties at present.” It’s a complete disaster.

“I have been told that the Director’s productivity rate has fallen alarmingly.”

“It is true, sir.”

“You will change this, or you will be replaced.”

“I serve him to my best ability, sir, but he doesn’t want to see me.”

“I am disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 “Have I misjudged you, Ensign?  With your particular set of skills you should be well prepared to handle him. Are you too inexperienced? Your Academy records suggest otherwise.”

You wince. You had hoped that particular part of your Academy years wasn’t public knowledge. This involved a certain professor whose extracurricular teachings had frequently had you on your knees eagerly partaking of these lessons, enjoying them immensely.

“I believe I have enough… experience, sir.”

“Then maybe you are simply too inexperienced with men of Krennic’s caliber and the sort of nocturnal carousing associating with them doubtlessly entails.”

“That has changed now, sir.”

He snorts dryly. “I believe it has, and rather abruptly at that. It would indeed a pity if this newly gained experience was wasted.”

His eyes bore into you and the sense of guilt overwhelms you. You thought you were carrying out your duties, while in fact you have ruined it all. It’s your fault the Director is a mess.

You sink to your knees, bowing your head in shame before the Governor.

“Please, forgive me,” you whisper, looking up at him pleadingly.

"Get up," he barks, then adds in a softer voice, "if you know what is good for you."

His gaze is oddly soft now. As you rise clumsily, you wonder what would happen if you were to remain kneeling. The thought is as titillating as it is forbidden. Tarkin is your mentor and your superior. You owe him the utmost respect, nothing more, nothing less.

"Sir, I beg you. Please give me one more chance. I will honour your trust."

"See that you do," he replies in his usual, clipped voice. Sternness is back in his gaze and he purses his lips in disapproval. You realize, a second too late, that he has deigned to acquiesce to your plea. The relief that washes over you makes you reel, and he grips your elbow, steadying you.

 “You are to give the Director what he needs,” he instructs, “which is not necessarily the same as what he wants. I trust you to do this with discretion.”

“But how?” You immediately regret asking.

“You will find a way or you will be replaced,” the Governor states coldly. “You have no idea how many young sluts there are, willing to part their legs for any old man who could further their career.”

It is a low blow and he knows it.

“Some do such things because they enjoy it, sir.” You can’t keep quiet. Your lust for your professor was real, not a means to an end.

“Really, Ensign?” He raises a thin eyebrow. “I will keep that in mind. Go now, and make sure to carry out your orders properly this time. I expect a full report in three days.”

"Thank you, sir," you whisper faintly, realizing at last how close to the precipice you had been.

That night, Governor Tarkin’s reptilian smile haunts your dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A difficult chapter to write. Thanks for bearing with me, and I do promise that the rest of the ride will be a lot more fun for all involved :-)


	3. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You prove your usefulness to Director Krennic.

Krennic’s self-destructive behaviour doesn’t change after your talk with Tarkin, but you feel decidedly more prepared to deal with the situation. You have been authorized to initiate a change and being backed up by the Governor’s orders gives you the courage you need to look for an opportunity to help the Director, even against his will.

Your comlink pings and you go into Director Krennic’s office. He’s behind his desk, annoyed, shaking an empty package of painkillers in front of your face. A sinking feeling hits you. This is the package you gave him only yesterday, fetched from Medbay with the strictest cautionary advice not to overdose. You have been a far too frequent guest their lately, and they only issued this package to you because you threatened to tell the Governor if they refused. Krennic will have to stop, or it will kill him.

“Sir?” You speak as softly as you can, and yet he flinches at the sound.

He taps the package impatiently against the table and flicks it onto the floor with an angry look from bloodshot eyes when you don’t take it.

“Please don’t take any more pills,” you plead. Your voice is shaky, far from the professional tone you aimed for.

“You are my assistant. You will do as I say.” He looks pointedly at the package on the floor and smirks when you bend over to pick it up.

“It won’t help, sir,” you say as you dispose of it. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more. Medbay…”

“Fuck the medbay!” He clutches his head with both hands. His expression is one of pure despair.

This is your chance. “May I try something, sir,” you ask softly. “Please?”

He sighs. “Whatever. It’s not like it can get much worse.”

“Thank you, sir.” You hand him the glass of water standing untouched on his desk since morning. You don’t want to know what he’s downed the day’s heavy dose of pills with. “Please drink this.”

He makes a face, but complies, swallowing in hungry gulps after the first tentative sip.

“Thank you.” You cast a quick glance around the large room and settle for the seating area where he often receives guests when a non-formal meeting is called for. “Please join me here, sir.” You sit at the edge of the sofa.

Krennic rises slowly and walks towards you, an image of exhaustion, no longer angry and defiant. When he sits down, it’s with a heavy thud. He clasps his head again.

“Please lie down,” you say gently as you guide him to lie down on his back with his head rested on your thighs. He lets out a weary sigh and his eyelids close almost immediately.

“Think of something good,” you tell him.

“Something good,” he spits and stares up at you. “You’re delusional.”

“A happy memory? A place you like? Your home world?” All your suggestions are met with snorts and sarcastic glances. “Think about this station being fully operational, then? Imagine receiving praise from the Emperor for all your hard work.”

“And seeing Tarkin demoted,” he adds dryly, suddenly perking up, the tiniest bit.

“Whatever you like, sir, it’s your thoughts. Now please close your eyes again while you think about that.”

“Governor fucking Tarkin disgraced and relieved from service. Ha!”

He lies with his head in your lap and, as you gently stroke his forehead, he relaxes gradually. The deep creases are smoothed out until only the thin, natural wrinkles that add character to his features remain.

He looks so peaceful like this, so innocent. His breathing slows down to a gentle heaving of his chest. You fall into a near meditative state watching him, you hand stilling and your eyelids threatening to close, too. Suddenly he moves in his slumber. He turns to lie on his side, facing the room, and his hand lands on your knee. It is a pleasant weight, a caress even if he isn’t aware of it. It’s so good to just sit like this, running your fingers through his silvery hair, smoothing it, putting errant strands behind his ear. Such bliss.

He wakes, disoriented.

“Lie down with me,” he mumbles sleepily, clearly not realizing where you are. The sofa would only accommodate both of you if... Your thoughts don’t go there, yet. For now, this is enough. It has to be.

He grabs your knee, steadying himself at he moves into a sitting position. His hand goes to his head and a surprised look comes into his eyes. It lasts only a moment. He stands abruptly and straightens his clothes.

“Don’t touch me again,” he says harshly. “Don’t offer any kind of intimacy until I decide you are ready for it.”

The flat rejection makes you flinch. You had hoped he would at least allow you to continue to help him relax to alleviate the stress headaches.

“I will do as you say, sir,” you say meekly, trying hard not to let your disappointment show. “Just please be aware that the Governor will replace me if you don’t like me – I mean, if you don’t want me around, sir.”

He abruptly steps close to you, his eyes narrowing. “I want to fucking wreck you,” he growls. “I just don’t seem to be the in the shape for that right now. Nobody will replace you, least of all bleeding Tarkin. You are mine. Mine!”

Your eyes widen with astonishment and a pleasant heat gathers in your belly.

“I hurt you, that time,” he continues in a more even voice. “This was unintentional.” He adds as an afterthought, “I didn’t enjoy it.” His expression is one of blue-eyed astonishment and there’s a slight pout to his lips.

“I tried to please you, sir.” This is true, if not entirely so. You had wanted him, but you had also acted against his initial refusal.

“Did you now?” Krennic lifts his chin and looks at you down his nose.

“Sir, I…” This was just too much.

He shushes you with a gesture and continues, in a lower voice.

“Your devotion to duty is commendable, Ensign. The next time, if there is one, you will not think about furthering your career. You will not be acting on the Governor’s order.” He leans closer, staring into your eyes as he hisses: “You will be desperate for me, so thirsty for my touch that you cannot control yourself. Your body will be ready for me, you will be so wet.”

“Please,” you whisper breathlessly.

He straightens and takes a step back.

“You are insufficiently prepared.” He pouts, cocking his head. You feel sorry for him, as he obviously intended. As if it’s suddenly your fault that Tarkin pushed you into his arms without knowing him well enough. You know are being manipulated, but it’s a small price to pay. Above all, you want to keep your position and remain in the Director’s proximity.

“Will you show me, sir? Will you teach me how to please you?”

“Will it be worth it?”

“Please, sir, I promise! I’ll do anything.”

“I will count on it.”

***

The next morning, Director Krennic is a different man. It seems you have finally done something right.

“So,” he says briskly when you enter his office, “where to begin today? Caf, I believe. Yes. And bring me the hard copy of section 4X-312a.”

You hurry to carry out his wishes and, when he doesn’t shoo you away, peek over his shoulder as he gets to work on the schematic. He barely looks at it before picking up a pen and drawing a couple of neat, thin lines, adding them to the ones already there.  The rest of the day disappears quickly in a flurry of long overdue final touches to various drawings. The last one is the schematic that has been lying untouched on his desk for many days now. With a flourish, he crosses out a couple of boxes and add new ones in their place.

“There. What do you think?”

“Splendid, sir.” To the untrained eye, one schematic looks just like the next one, but if he has now completed work struggled with for a week, it’s a victory worthy of praise.

“Good. I believe it’s time for a dinner break. Accompany me to the canteen.”

The canteen is crowded and you end up next to the Director, sharing a table with staff from his department. Krennic is in buoyant mood and entertains everyone with his immense energy, boasting about new plans and the bright future for the galaxy that now lies within everyone’s grasp thanks to his ingenuity. He’s somewhat more restrained in his talk, but that is the gist of it. Flamboyant visions aside, seeing him happy makes you smile.

You feel the heat of his thigh against yours, and suddenly a hand on your knee. He is gesturing with the other, continuing to hold your companions’ attention. You make an effort to look normal, when in fact you are holding your breath in anticipation of the Director’s next move. The hand creeps up your thigh and settles on top, then begins a slow but sure trajectory down between your legs. You instinctively press them shut, trapping him.

He pauses his story and leans towards you until his lips are right against your ear.

“Open, Ensign,” he breathes in a low voice that is barely a whisper, but the authoritative tone sends shivers down your spine.

With a whimper poorly disguised as a cough, you do as he says. You part your thighs and wait for the inevitable. Two fingers rub at your crotch, thoroughly grinding the inseam of your trousers into your flesh before they move on slightly higher, finding an even sweeter target. Desperate not to give yourself away in public, you move away, towards the back of the chair. He follows, laughing at a joke of his own while his fingers continue to tease you mercilessly. You have no choice but to accept, until you can no longer resist the urge to push into his hand with the tiniest movement of your hips. The others are laughing too, willing victims of Krennic’s charisma until he lets go of them. Only when they leave does he look at you. His eyes are alight, holding you captive as he continues to rub you while you encourage him with inaudible little gasps. Then he suddenly stops and rises from the table.

“I believe that’s all for tonight, Ensign. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir. I wish you a good night.” You know what you’ll be thinking about in your bed as you finish what he started.

“My shift is far from over,” he says and raises his hand in an elegant salute before returning to his office with confident strides, cape billowing behind him.

***

  
The following day, Governor Tarkin demands your presence in his office as soon as you arrive at your desk. This is puzzling – your report isn’t due until the following day.

“You wished to see me, sir.”

“Indeed. This is for you.” He indicates a piece of folded grey fabric, the same colour as your uniform.

You take it, and discover to your surprise that it’s a skirt, a short one with clever folds that allow for freedom of movement while the garment still looks well-fitting and reasonably formal.

“Eh…sir, what is this?”

“Your new uniform. Some ingenious design the Director apparently came up with the other night and immediately commissioned. He insists you wear it for, as he said, productivity enhancement purposes.”

“Sir?” It’s a pretty item of clothing, but a far cry from proper uniform trousers.

“I have approved it.” Tarkin sighs. “The Director works best outside the confines of standard regulations. At this point, I find myself willing to accept his quirks for the sake of furthering the war effort. Your presence is an anomaly already. Wearing that garment will not make any significant addition to the chaos.”

“Thank you, sir.” You change on the way to Krennic’s office. The Director looks as energetic as the previous evening, in spite of apparently having slept little.

 “Very good,” he remarks as you twirl around, following his gesture. “I have also designed a process aimed at encouraging myself to drink more water. May I demonstrate?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He moves his chair away from the desk and pats his thighs. “Come here.”

You follow his command, suddenly very aware of just how short the skirt is, how it rides up your bare thighs as you sit down sideways on his lap.

“Exactly like that, Ensign,” he remarks as his arms circle your waist. His voice is dripping with honey, but when you look into his eyes there’s a glint of ferocity there, as if he’s trapped you and is ready to consume you.

You swallow, and the unresolved desire from the previous night returns with full strength.

“Please,” you croak.

He lays his hand on your thigh, just below the skirt and this time it trails unhindered over your skin. It slides underneath the fabric, continuing its journey ever so slowly. You part your legs in eager anticipation, breath hitching as questing fingers reach your core. Soon, you are squirming in the Director’s lap as he begins to rub and pet you in earnest. You can feel his interest pressing against your thigh and in your thoughts you beg him for more.

A knock on the door interrupts you. The Director curses, and puts you onto your feet.

“I have to leave,” he says. “This demonstration will be resumed at the earliest opportunity.”

“I hope so, sir. I have yet to see how it helps you remember about the water.”

“By stirring my thirst,” he retorts and lifts the glass, gulping it down before leaving.

***

When Krennic finally returns by the end of your shift, the last couple of days’ burst of energy have caught up on him. He’s exhausted, dragging his feet after him as he enters his office.

“I’ll allow you to touch me now,” he says as he sinks down into a chair.

“Headache again, sir?”

“No, at least not that. Just stiff shoulders. And I really need to get out of these boots.”

You crouch at his feet and as you start working on his boots you feel his fingers in your hair. He fists it roughly at first, then releases his grasp when you still your movements.

“You’re good to me,” he remarks lazily as he caresses you. “And don’t say it’s your duty.” He catches your chin in a firm grip. “I never want to hear that again. Understood?”

You nod. “You deserve someone being good to you, sir.”

He snorts, rather bitterly.  “If only. By the way, you will not lie to me.”

“Never, sir.” You both know this decision is not entirely yours to make. “May I rub your shoulders now, sir,” you ask when both boots are off and the silence becomes uncomfortable. You would rather lean your head against his thigh and have him continue to touch your hair.

“Sure.”

His shoulders are very stiff and he grunts with pain as you dig into them, applying pressure to the areas that will allow his neck muscles relax. You relish in feeling his skin under your hands and hearing his responses, the little groans he lets out as relief comes to one area after another. You can’t resist placing a little peck at the nape of his neck when you’re done.

“What was that?”

“Just a little kiss, sir. Because I wanted to.”

“You’d be unwise to develop feelings for me,” pointing out the obvious. “I’m said to be both hot-tempered and ruthless. I will use you without mercy.”

“What if that is what I want, sir?”

“Then you’re welcome. But remember that you will have yourself to blame. I will not nurse your crushed heart if it comes to that.”

“It won’t. Thank you for your honesty, sir.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but I will take great pleasure in using you.”

“So will I, sir.” You do not love him but oh how you crave his touch.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... this still isn't nearly as smutty as I planned this story to be, but we're getting there :-)


	4. Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin accepts your report with unexpected eagerness, and you get a new chance to prove your usefulness as Krennic decides to take you with him to a stressful meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, dear readers, is smut. Krennic gets laid properly. Finally.

It is with mixed feelings you approach Governor Tarkin to report of your work with Director Krennic. You’re proud of your progress and eager for the Governor’s praise, but at the same time, it feels like you’re already betraying the small trust the Director may have placed in you. He may have extravagant manners and a foul tongue at times, but you will never forget how vulnerable he looked with his head resting in your lap. He cannot have reached his position without fighting for it with claws and teeth, but still, you feel protective of him in front of Tarkin. You are determined not to fail any of them.

The first part is easy, and the Director’s vastly improved productivity does earn you an appreciating glance that makes you beam with pride. It’s when Tarkin demands to hear some of the intimate specifics it becomes awkward. In spite of the nature of your services, you have not expected to have to report on them in such detail.

“I am waiting for the rest of your report, Ensign,” the Governor says slowly, the ‘r’s rolling in your head. “Surely an example or two of your recent dealings with the Director is not beyond your ability to provide. I need to be able to assess your work properly.” His raises an eyebrow as he stares at you.

“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.” You take a breath and begin, bringing up a recent memory. “Director Krennic touched me last night, sir. Intimately.”

“And how did this occur? Tell me.” His eyes shine with eagerness.

“He was standing behind me, very close, and I felt his hardness against my rear, sir.”  You shiver at the fresh memory. He had been so very hard indeed. “And then his hand was on my breast.”

“And how did you react to this, Ensign? Did you encourage him?”

“I may have, sir.”

“Did you?” He pierces you with his grey eyes.

You are at a loss. What answer does he want? You want desperately to provide the correct one. “I did, sir,” you finally say.

“Very good.” You relax. “In what manner?”

“I pressed back against him, sir, just a little. And he began to grind into me and grope my breast and he breathed into my ear. And then I encouraged him verbally, sir.” You feel your cheeks flush, and strangely, the Governor looks a little agitated as well.

“You moaned,” he states.

“Yes, sir. I couldn’t help myself.” This admission makes you blush to the roots of your hair and you bow your head in shame.

“This is perfectly understandable under the circumstances, Ensign.” You lift your head slowly, surprised at his forgiving tone. He continues, unperturbed, “I am lead to believe you have also applied a relaxation technique to the Director.”

“That is correct.” You’re on safe ground now and able to speak with more confidence. “I gave Director Krennic a massage, sir. He removed his tunic and allowed me to unbutton his shirt…”

“Entirely?” Tarkin appears scandalized.

“Only the first two buttons, sir. Just enough so I could get my hands underneath the collar and knead his shoulders.”

The Governor ponders this while discreetly rolling and straightening his own shoulders.

You continue. “He indicated a wish to repeat this activity at a later occasion, sir.” What Krennic had in fact said was “I should have you do this every night, naked,” but it didn’t seem appropriate for relating to your superior. “Perhaps you would like me to rub your shoulders, sir?”

“Certainly not.” The immediate reply is delivered in a sharp tone that takes you aback.

“Of course not, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”

“I do not doubt it would be enjoyable, Ensign,” he explains appeasingly, “but, however beneficial, such touching would also be most inappropriate. It could potentially cause highly unprofessional responses in the recipient.”

Oh.

“You will refrain from making such offers in the future,” he continues. “A weaker man might accept and such intimate services could lead to loss of control and other… complications. Some men, you see, even high-ranking officers, are ruled by their baser needs. Their animalistic instincts are stirred by the slightest provocation.”

“I will remember that, sir.”

“I, however, harness no such weakness.”

“I admire your strength, sir.” This is true. You are proud to serve under such a competent, inspiring leader as the Grand Moff.

***

Director Krennic is on his way to a budget meeting. He is clearly agitated, leafing through papers without finding what he’s looking for, then picking up his datapad only to put it down again and reach for a smaller one to slide into his pocket. He grabs his gloves, then decides against them and leaves them on the desk. He throws back the cold contents of a half-finished mug of caf, despite your offer of a fresh one. “This will be bad,” he remarks. He is stating the obvious; you already know he hates anything to do with financial matters. “I need something to sustain me.”

In two quick strides, he is behind you, pushing you up against the wall. He presses his quickly growing erection against your behind, grinding into you with a low growl as you push back, overcome by the sudden heat rushing through your body at his passionate assault. His fingers are at your front, gliding easily over the already soaked material. You need him to touch you more, harder… please! A clever finger efficiently pushes the panty crotch to the side and is joined by another in its pursuit. You let out a soft, keening sound as he pushes into you insistently, while continuing to grind into you from behind with little grunts. You are up on your tiptoes, steadying yourself against the wall, trying to decide whether to take his fingers deeper inside you, or to push back against his arousal. It feels incredible, and his hot breath in your ear encourages you, urges you on until you’re almost on the edge.

Both datapads start pinging insistently and he groans. “That’s all for now,” he declares and lets go of you. The loss of contact nearly makes you sob, you were so close. You look at him over your shoulder, hoping if not for a breach in his resolve, then at least a hint of an excuse.

“Come here,” he mouths, curling glistening fingers in your direction. “I can hardly go to a meeting like this, can I?”

You part your lips slowly as you go to him. He holds his hand still, waiting for you to take it. You lick his fingers clean while you clench your thighs, aching to be touched again.

“When I return,” he states as he rubs the residual wetness off on a handkerchief, “you will be on your knees beside my desk.”

“Like this, sir?” You sink into a demure, sitting position, hands folded in your lap. “Or more like this?” Your straightened back pushes your chest out in a way he obviously finds appealing.

He casts a couple of glances between you and the door, then takes you by the wrist and tugs you up. “Come with me,” he says. “Hurry up.”

“Sir, do you think it wise…” The Governor was not happy the last time you showed up uninvited to a meeting.

“You will not question my judgment.” You know you should, but this is not the time.

In the meeting room, Director Krennic smoothly maneuvers you into the chair next to him, and makes an extra chair manifest mysteriously to still leave room for the officer whose seat you have invaded. You dare not look at the Governor; you can imagine his displeasure well enough without doing so.

“Ensign,” you hear his dry voice. “Since you have chosen to grace us with your presence, I expect you to make yourself useful.”

“Of course, Governor,” you reply. “How may I be of service?” He tilts his head to the left and you follow the direction to the pitchers on the sideboard.

You walk around the meeting table, pouring mineral water into glasses for the fifteen or so men present. A few of them lift their glasses to ease your task, but most of them seem content for you to lean over them, or press between the chairs as you pour. You are very aware of your skirt, and a few hands too many brush against your thighs for it to be purely coincidental.  A Colonel caught in the act merely grins as he puts his hand back on the table. There’s a scraping of chairs as Krennic half-rises to protest, but Tarkin calls everyone to order and the meeting begins.

The Director was right; the meeting is not an uplifting one. There has been an audit of the previous year’s financial records, and, apparently the spending exceeds the budget by a ghastly 47 per cent. Krennic shrugs and flatly announces that all expenditure of his project has been necessary. You wince at his arrogance. Tarkin looks like he’s about to lose his calm, but instead takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

The explanations for the increased costs are many, the accusations of recklessness equally abundant, and many rounds with the water pitcher is required before the heated discussion fades into apathy from the mere length of the proceedings. Tarkin finally concludes that the pecuniary sacrifice will be worth it, as long as the battle station is going to be fully operational according to schedule.

“It will be,” Krennic assures them. “No effort is being spared, and anyone who doubted my competence will regret their feeble faith!”

Discussion breaks out again, although only in a low mumble. You pat the Director’s thigh reassuringly, and note to your delight how he goes rigid. Slowly, you ease your hand over his lap. He is holding his breath now, his hands still on the table. You brush your fingers against his crotch, feeling him begin to strain against his trousers. A little more, just a little more. You stroke him confidently, priding yourself with the significant bulge that arises in your wake. The Director still says nothing, but his face is red, and suddenly he has your wrist in a vice-like grip.

The meeting ends and all rise, engaging in small talk now that the tension is released.

“I found Krennic’s assistant a rather invigorating addition, Governor,” says the Colonel with the curious fingers. “Future meetings would benefit from a similar arrangement.” Murmurs of approval and support are heard. Tarkin crushes their hopes efficiently.

“Gentlemen,” he says stiffly, “do I need to remind you? There should be no need for distraction as we discuss affairs of the Empire.”

To this, all must concede. Subdued, they file out and only you and the Director remain, until Tarkin clears his throat and Krennic stands, straight as a rod. He nods curtly to the Governor but hardly leaves time for you to pay your respects. A quick glance around the empty corridor, and he tugs you into a supply closet. “How dare you,” he hisses and presses you up against the door, slamming your wrists into the wall above your head. Despite his angry voice, his blazing eyes betrays his true mood.

“I will have you now,” he declares. “This is not how I planned to enjoy you today, but you have left me with no other option.” He grinds into you. “This is your fault.”

“Please,” you whimper, bucking and pressing against him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

The moment he lets go of your wrists you tug at his belt. It falls to the floor with a loud clang, and is followed by your panties. The Director frees his cock with haste and hooks your knee over his elbow as he hoists your leg up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock against your slick folds, inching nearer its target with each miniscule adjustment of his hips. There. You hold your breath as he sinks into you, slowly, his features contorting into a sneer.

“There,” he groans and rams into you, making you whimper from the sheer force of it. “Again?” You nod, and he starts to drive into you with a wicked pace, grunting with each thrust. You cling to his shoulders, panting and moaning softly into his tunic, trying to ignore how the door rattles rhythmically as he continues to pound you. Someone is bound to hear, and you ought to stop him, and you can’t and you don’t want to, not with the delicious pressure building in your body.

A particularly vicious thrust makes you let out a long keening sound, and you shake wildly, helpless to fight the waves of pleasure that roll over you. He is not long after. Three more thrusts and his chin drops as his face slackens. With a low growl, he gives you a few shallow thrusts for good measure before he stills his movements entirely. He still has you pinned against the closet door.

“We should… leave, sir,” you suggest gingerly when that far away gaze he sometimes gets while working on his designs doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Right.” He slips out of you and straightens his clothes. You bend to pick up your panties, but he snatches them from your hand.

“I’ll take care of these. They are hardly in state to be worn.”

“But, sir!”

“Ensign, I trust you to be able to walk to my office in a professional manner.” His voice is cold, but there’s a warm glint in his eyes that ignites your lust for him again.

“Of course, sir,” you whisper breathlessly.

He swings the closet door open and exits with a confident stride, only to bump into Tarkin, who takes a step back with an offended expression. The Governor casts an appraising glance at you and you blush furiously.

“Tsssk, Krennic. A supply closet? Surely this is on the rough side even for you?”

Krennic is unmoved. “Efficiency, Governor,” he replies coolly. “I believe that is the ultimate goal of the Ensign’s service.”

Tarkin looks down his nose at both of you while he hastily adjusts his collar, before walking off in a huff.

***

Back in his office, you don’t even make it to the sofa. Director Krennic politely holds the door open for you, but as soon as you’ve entered, he locks it. You are only a couple of steps into the room when he flings himself at you from behind, bringing you down with some clever but undignified technique that lands you both on the floor. He is hard again already, pushing against you with all his weight.

“Mine,” he growls possessively into your ear, his lips so close they brush against your skin. You shiver, and he grazes your throat with those pouty lips. You turn your head slightly, offering more of your neck. “Just so,” he coos. “Mine to do what I want with.” His voice is like a caress, going straight to your core.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Please.”

He chuckles and lifts his weight off of you, allowing you to stand on your knees. His hands are on your hips and it hits you right then how beautiful they are, powerful and large, such skilled hands holding you. His mouth is at your throat again, nipping and pecking, nudging your collar to the side until he finds the fleshy part where neck joins shoulder. There, he bites down firmly and you cry out. Immediately, his fingers are on your clit, rubbing and soothing, encouraging you to spread your legs.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “Pleasing me so much.”

At his gentle nudge, you lean onto your hands and arch your back, pushing into him as he rubs your backside. You are so wet for him, so very ready. An impatient little moan escapes your mouth and he chuckles again.

“Slut,” he whispers softly. “You will get it, just wait.” There is rustling of clothes, and then he’s suddenly there, inside you, filling you deliciously.

You sink onto your elbows, pressing your face against the floor. Anything to take him deeper. “Please, more,” you beg, lifting your hips up against him until you cannot longer hold the position and sink down to lie flat on your belly.

“Do you want me to fuck you through the floor?” Your answer is a pitiful whimper, but he takes mercy on you. His arms cage you in safely as he drives into your prone form, grinding you against the floor with each thrust until you shudder and fall quiet. He comes with a low growl.

You lie like that for a long time, relishing in feeling his weight on top of you, his breathing that gradually slows down, his smell of leather and expensive eau-de-cologne. Fluids pool between your thighs as he pulls out with a wet, undignified sound. He rolls onto his back and winces.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he complains.

“You’re very virile, sir.”

He smirks and rises with admirable agility. While you are still trying to smooth the creases from your skirt, he produces a bottle of red wine and two glasses from a cupboard.

“Do we celebrate something, sir?” you ask.

“I have been amiss in my duties as your superior. Allow me to welcome you properly into my service.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You drink and then regroup to the sofa, which is precisely large enough for two when he’s on his back and you are draped on top of him. His hand rests on you backside. At first it is on top of the material, but soon it slips underneath to run lazily over your bare bottom.

“Are you… attached, sir?” you ask after a while, feeling bold from the wine and the unusual closeness. You are not jealous, you tell yourself, merely curious.

You lift your head to look at him and he smiles smugly.

“I’m not, although the analogy isn’t too far from the truth. This,” he says as he shows you his ring, “is the insignia of the engineering corps. We share a special bond, all who survived with their sanity intact.”

“It was bad?” You have heard of the atrocities involved in some of the early colonialization attempts many years ago.

“It was mayhem,” he states solemnly. “Erso is one of us, by the way.”

The mad scientist. All said he was supposedly brilliant, but he didn’t appear sane to you. Too skittish, eyes too wild. Now it’s easier to understand why.

“This is my first loyalty,” Krennic says and brings the ring to his lips, pressing it to them as he closes his eyes briefly. The gesture is so intimate and private that it makes you blush. You hide your face against his chest.

“My project is my second. Nobody will take my beautiful, lethal star from me,” he declares fiercely as he grabs your behind. “I am her creator and her master.”

“And the Empire?” You have always been told that’s where your loyalty must lie, first and foremost. Perhaps it is different for the bosses.

He grips the hair at your neck, hard, forcing you to lift your head and look into his eyes, now icy orbs.

“Do you presume to judge me? Do you wish to see me executed?” he hisses, the sudden change of mood making you flinch. “Have no illusions, my dove. Threaten me, and that’ll be the last thing your pretty little mouth does. I can think of better uses for it.”

***

You don’t love him. Like a mantra, you repeat it over and over. Until one day it is no longer true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some smut :-) I'm happy with this chapter, or at least as happy as I can be - as English isn't my first language I can't entirely get rid of the feeling that I've mixed something up... Anyway, I hope this was entertaining :-)


	5. Servitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Krennic knows exactly what he wants from you, and you are very happy to provide it. Until he asks for the unthinkable…

Director Krennic has a new morning routine. When you have brought him his first cup of caf, you kneel beside his desk as he drinks it. He pretends to do so slowly, and to not deign to look at you as he drinks, but you have caught him too many times to fall for the ruse. You school your features into a perfect image of demure adoration, careful not to show how uncomfortable the position is for you. You would not put it past him to make you keep it longer if he knew. Luckily, the Director is an impatient man – he never lets you wait for long. He is as eager as you are for what comes next.

He puts down the cup with a small rap that betrays his eagerness, and then puts on his gloves. This is your signal. You crawl underneath the desk and settle between his legs, eyes downcast, hands folded in your lap again. You don’t move a muscle when his hand reaches towards your face, but inside, you feel a surge of excitement. He catches your chin, making you look up at him as he holds you steadily. All your attention is on him, his clenched jaw, his eyes slightly widened in wonder as if he’s to some extent still bewildered by finding you at his feet.

Strands of silver have fallen over his forehead, into his eyes, and he brushes them away with an impatient wave of his hand. They fall right back again, but he appears not to notice. He’s staring at you with those innocent summer sky eyes and then a hard glint gets into them and he tightens his grip around your chin, forcing your mouth to open. You hold your breath as he drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. When you start breathing again the smell of leather is intoxicating, the softness of the leather against your mouth an alluring invitation.

You don’t fall for this trick. It is hard to fight the impulse to suck the digit into your mouth, to hold it between your teeth, even bite. Still you resist, remembering the stinging slap to your cheek the one time you tried. You remain still, waiting under his demanding gaze. Until he shifts in his chair and lets go of your chin when the urgency to use this hand elsewhere becomes too insistent. Your eyes are momentarily drawn to it. Watching him stroke his bulge feeds your hunger and you involuntarily suck the digit into your mouth. He pulls it out with a wet, popping sound.

“Do it.” His voice is practically a purr.

You stretch forward, bowing your head towards his crotch, kissing him through the uniform trousers, leaving a wet spot on the fabric that will make him furious if he notices it. You relish in the knowledge that you have made him this hard. He hisses as you mouth him greedily, but allows it.

His hands are gripping the armrests of the chair, tight enough to whiten, were it not for the gloves. Then they fly to his waist and with a groan of pleasure he frees his erection from the confines of his expensive, but now much too tight, underwear. You wonder briefly at his ability to procure such merchandise in the midst of war, but then the Director’s talents in providing for himself are worthy of admiration.

As is the length of flesh now bared to your gaze. You rub your chin against it, enjoying the velvety softness against your skin. Then you turn your head and your lips touch the thick base. His cock twitches, and you drag your half-parted, wet lips all along the underside of the shaft, almost to the top, then slowly begin a downwards motion.

This is when his hand is in your hair, taking a firm grip at the base of your neck. He does not allow you to slide downwards, but pulls you up, up towards the crown. You lick your lips and slide them over the head, engulfing him in moist warmth, holding him just inside your mouth while your tongue explores him, swirls around the bulbous head and as much as you can reach. He pushes into your mouth and you relax your throat as much as you can, eager to take him in, just a little more. He lets you up before you gag. This is your silent agreement, one he honours. For now, it is enough to revel in the knowledge that he could force you, were that his wish.

“You love when I make you suck my cock,” he purrs. “You crave to be controlled.” He pulls you harshly off of him and let go of your hair. You look up at him. “You need to be ruled,” he continues softly, now with a dreamy quality to his gaze.

“I do, sir,” you whisper hoarsely. “Will you rule over me?”

He pushes you onto his cock again, and with a low growl, he comes.

Sometimes this is all he needs. Today it is not. He lifts you onto his desk and stands between your legs. You can feel him harden against you again and it always makes you whimper. You look into his diluted pupils and his gaze burns you with its intensity. You rub his length until he brushes your hand aside and lines himself up with your entrance. You both watch as his engorged member enters you slowly, your folds parting obediently around him, soft pink giving way to angry red.

He begins to fuck you lazily. Now that he has you, his need isn’t so urgent anymore. The brunt of it has been slaked already. This is for comfort, because he can, because he feels like indulging you. You are the one who _needs_ it.

“Please fuck me, sir,” you plead.

“That is what I’m doing, I believe,” he drawls, taunting you with a series of quick, but shallow thrusts.

“I need… more,” you groan. “Sir!”

“Making demands, Ensign?” He smirks, but snaps his hips vigorously, driving deep inside you with each word.

“Yes, please, Director. I need you. I _need_ you. Pleeeaaase.”

“You need to come,” he corrects and shakes his head, pouting. “I bet you couldn’t care less at this point who gives it to you, as long as it’s good and hard.” His breath is ragged now. “Beg me again and I will do… just… that. Fucking beg me.”

He can sneer all he wants as long as he continues to ah… ah… “Please-please-sir-director-fuck-me-pleeeaase…”

The rest of the phrase is drenched in a drawn out, keening sound. You begin to writhe under him, shuddering and moaning wildly as he picks up his pace and makes good on his promise.

Afterwards, he sits down calmly at his desk and begins the day’s work. He is in an excellent mood. You envy him – he can spend all day with blueprints and calculations, while you have to face the Governor with no time for a shower.

***

As usual, the first part of the reporting is easy. The DS-1 is near completion and not even Governor Tarkin can find anything to complain over concerning Director Krennic’s work. The second part is a challenge; it’s decidedly difficult to give a detailed account of your amorous escapades with the Director without being affected by it. Especially when his seed is still inside of you. You press your thighs together.

Nothing gets past the Governor’s attention. “Ensign, are you aroused?”

You jump at the unexpected question. “Negative, sir.”

He can smell your lie. It has escaped your lips too fast and now you are caught up in it. You stare straight in front of you, frantically trying to make up your mind of what is the greater offence – lying to your superior, or embarrassing both of you.

His steely eyes catch your gaze and you stare at each other in silence. When he suddenly lets you off the hook by diverting his eyes you take your first breath in eons.

“I see,” he says, and continues slowly, staring at you again, “So, if I were to examine you, I would not find you wet?” He pronounces the last work carefully, as if taking great pleasure in doing so. You stare at his lips, mesmerized.

“Certainly not, sir.” Your voice hitches slightly, giving you away.

“It would be very improper if you were. Such dishonesty would need to be punished.”

You bite your lip. You will never admit it, and he… Will. Not. Put. Those. Long. Thin. Fingers. Underneath. Your. Skirt. He won’t, will he? He would never do that. Not Governor Tarkin. Nonono.

He watches you steam in your thoughts.

“You see, Ensign,” he says slowly, “if you were indeed _excited_ , it would be permissible for you to gain relief by means of pressing against the corner of this desk, here.” His fingers rub suggestively against the smooth surface.

Your face is flushed already; now you feel it turning crimson. “Thank you, sir,” you stutter in shock and disbelief. “I… appreciate your consideration, sir. I do make an effort to control myself in your presence, sir.”

“A commendable ambition, Ensign. I am concerned for your well-being and merely want to make certain you are aware of the options available.”

“I understand, sir. You are too good to me, sir.”

You don’t understand a thing. Except maybe that cracks are beginning to form in the perfect image of Wilhuff Tarkin, Governor and Grand Moff, that you have been carefully constructing inside your head for years. You hate him for it, but you hate even more the responses this realization draws from your body.

***

You have an evening routine with Director Krennic as well, and simply thinking about it is enough to keep you wet the entire day. He wears no gloves in the evenings, and sometimes his cape is off, too, and he sits at his desk in just his shirt, sleeves rolled up.

You pour him a glass of red wine and sit on his lap while he drinks it. Sometimes he offers you a sip, sometimes not. He always feels between your legs, satisfied to find you ready for him when he runs his fingers along your slit. He likes to kiss your nipples with wine still in his mouth. It is slobbery and disgusting, but oddly fascinating as well. Ruby drops run down your front and he catches them with his tongue. He enjoys watching how your nipples turn into hard little peaks when he laps at your tits.

Then he bends you over the desk. This is the moment you have been waiting for. He likes it rough in the evening, perhaps a way to free himself of the stress and tension gathered during the day. It suits you well. You like when you can still feel him when you go to sleep, just the tiniest soreness to serve as a reminder that you belong to him, even if it’s only an arrangement for duty’s sake. You wish you were bold enough to ask him to spend a night with you. Just one. To fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, and then wake up in the morning together.

For now, it is bliss to feel his balls slap against your thighs as he buries himself deep inside you over and over. You entice him with breathy, wanton gasps that make him practically slam into you.

“How do you like that, greedy little slut,” he growls. “Is… this… hard enough for you?"

You whimper, unable to form proper words, and he continues to pound into you with hard thrusts until you can barely breathe, until his body shudders as he finally spills himself inside of you with a loud groan.

Afterwards, you lounge on the sofa. He’s half sitting against one of the armrests and you’re leaning back against him. His soft bulge against the small of your back is a nice reminder of shared pleasure, and his hands play idly with your tits. He enjoys teasing you and turning you on even when he himself is sated. One hand slides towards your clit and rubs it lazily until you begin to buck up against his fingers and your head lolls back against his shoulder as you let desire overtake you.

"What an insatiable trollop I was fortunate to find,” he drawls. “Or, correctly, that the otherwise quite insufferable Governor found for me. I ought to thank him, don’t you agree?”

“Of course, Director.”

“I figured you’d say that, my pliable little slut. So, what does he want?”

“Your expressed gratitude would be more than sufficient. All he cares about is the project, you know that already.”

“So, he has no personal vices I might satisfy?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I don’t know him that well, really.” For the longest time, you thought you did, but the official image is not the man himself. Of course it isn’t. You have been so naïve.

“Would you like to?” He begins to play with your tits again, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger in a way that is very distracting.

“I’m sorry? Sir?”

“How would you like an opportunity to get to know Tarkin closer?” The suggestive tone that has crept into his voice is slightly alarming.

“Sir, I don’t see how he’d be interested in spending time with me. He’s strictly professional and doesn’t waste his time on low-ranking assistants.”

“This wouldn’t be about wasting time… but should rather be seen as an… _investment_. Yes, let’s call it that.”

“I don’t understand.” You are beginning to, but your brain doesn’t want to make the required connections.

“Really? I thought you were a smart girl. It’s very simple. I want you to seduce him.”

“Governor Tarkin?” No. No way. No.

“Would you rather I gave you to Vader?” His voice is sharp now.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Then Tarkin it is,” he states, and begins to idly stroke your hair with soft caresses. “I don’t like being in debt of gratitude and this would let me even the odds some. Plus, I rather enjoy the prospect of witnessing such an affair… yes. It will be perfect.”

“Forgive me, sir, but he’d never fall for some simple seduction attempt. He’s much too clever for that.”

“You’re right, my dove. I’ll find another way, but you will bed him.”

“Whatever you say, Director.”

“You will.”

“Yes, Director Krennic.”

“Good girl. Now get out, and let me plan this properly.”

The idea of sleeping with the Governor makes you sick to the stomach. He is your hero, a great military leader and an example for everyone of how high one might rise in the Emperor’s regard by serving loyally and selflessly. Awe is the feeling he instils in you, admiration and respect. Not lust. No.

And yet, the idea floats around in your head until it’s time to report. It winds itself around your brain, warps your thoughts, intrude on your dreams. You do _not_ desire him. Only to be commanded by him, work with him, serve the Empire together with him, under him. Serve _him_ , the voice inside your head whispers. You are lost, the great man’s resilience your only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you like, I love hearing what you think about the story, any particular parts you enjoyed etc.


	6. Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Tarkin react when you tell him that Krennic wants you to sleep with him? Hmmm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a short section with consensual reluctance at the end of chapter. If this may be triggering for you, please quit reading when someone mentions playing a game.

Director Krennic is in full regalia when you enter his office that evening. He is in an exuberant mood and has, apparently, been working, in spite of the half-empty bottle on his desk. There is no glass. Pencils and printed schematics are everywhere, even on the floor. The cape swishes around his feet as he rises and strides towards you. His eyes are dark and he grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you into a hungry kiss that quickly fuels your arousal.

“Take them off,” he growls and grabs at your arse.

“Sir,” you pant as you comply hastily, your lust already stirred by this passionate welcome.

His hand immediately goes between your thighs. “You are irresistible like this, so wet for me.” You can barely breathe, you want him so much to take you right there.

You cup him through his trousers and he pulls you to the desk, pushing your upper body down onto it from behind. He nudges your left knee up onto the top, spreading you for his gaze.

He hisses through his teeth as he sinks into you with a deep groan.  Fire courses through your body as he fucks your wet cunt in deep, erratic strokes. You try to hold still, not to crease the print-outs, and all you can do is toss your head and moan desperately as sweet tension builds inside you until you are witless with lust under his relentless assault. All you know is that you crave him. Convulsions shake you as you are taken over by a powerful orgasm.

The room is a mess when you’re done, and not even the badly creased blueprint that somehow ended up under you, dampens the Director’s elated mood. “I might frame this one,” he says and brings it to his nose. “I could hang it on the wall for all to see, and they would suspect nothing, but I bet you’d be wet again from barely looking at it, wouldn’t you?”

You smile. “You know I would, sir.”

“Precisely. I might do that. But first, there’s a part I need to finish tonight, just a small final touch to the section right here.”

It’s pleasure to watch him work, to see him energetic and creative. He walks to and fro, strands of hair flopping, cape billowing as he ponders some idea and then writes something with an elegant flourish.

“Rest now, my dove,” he says when he notices that you are still in the room. “I have work to do, and if you stay, I may feel tempted…” He bites his lip and manages to look rakish at the same time as he reminds you of a small boy. You don’t want to leave.

“Sir, why do you keep calling me that,” you ask, hoping to keep his attention for a few minutes more. “I understand it’s an endearment, and I appreciate it, but I’m curious.”

“Dove? That is the nearest equivalent in Galactic Basic.”

“For what? Some other kind of bird?”

“There’s this bird on Lexrul, a round little thing about this size,” – he forms a ball with both hands, slightly larger than his fist. “It has a luscious plumage and rather large eyes.”

“It sounds cute.”

“I used to hunt it as a boy. It has sharp teeth, but will not use them against a large predator. Rather, it sits still, hoping to be unnoticed. It would let me creep up to it without moving and then sit and stare at me, pleadingly.”

“And you’d kill it.”

“Of course. That is the nature of the predator, and the purpose of the hunt.”

“And I somehow remind you of this bird. Because I’m fat?”

“Because you surrender to my will so delightfully.”

It is the night before your next scheduled report with Governor Tarkin. Back in your own quarters this realization hits you with full force. You shudder at the thought of what you must tell him, of the impossible, shameful thing the Director has commanded you to do. You can’t, you mustn’t defy him, and still you cannot suffer this humiliation. How did it come to this? You shed numerous tears over your bitter fate.

***

In the morning it’s all clear to you again. You will tell the Governor everything. You will appeal to the great man, and he will absolve you, somehow he will save you. He will not let you fall.

 “I hear that Krennic is constantly happy and, more important, fruitfully occupied,” the Governor says when you have relayed his professional status. “Well done, Ensign. In spite of my initial doubts, I am very pleased with your progress.”

Emboldened by the praise, you go straight to the problem. You must say it anyway. "Governor, sir,” you begin, “I don't know how to report this professionally, but he wants me to sleep with you."

Tarkin quirks an elegant eyebrow. "Is this truly so? I find it difficult to believe that such a territorial man would desire unfaithfulness on your part." He seems genuinely surprised.

"Director Krennic wants me to prove my obedience to him, sir. And he wants to watch as you... bed me." There. The awful news are out. You are beyond yourself with shame. At this point you are well accustomed to the Director's depraved tastes, but his having the audacity to pull the respectable Governor into his sins is unthinkable, and you feel like you have already part of this sullying by merely reporting the fact. You bite your lip nervously as Tarkin considers your words.

He rises from the chair and circles slowly around the room, hands behind his back. "This is a highly unusual development,” he finally says. “One that I have not foreseen."

"I'm sorry to burden you with such a thing,” you blurt out, trying to somehow smooth over the unmentionable topic. “It’s ridiculous, of course, sir, but you said you wanted to hear everything, so..."

"The idea has its merits," the Governor decides, stopping in front of you. "It would indeed prove your loyalty to him."

“But, sir, you cannot take this seriously… I’m sure it was only a fluke, sir!” This is not at all going in the direction you expected. You are clutching at straws now. “You don’t need to listen to him. Please!”

“Indeed I do not. How about you, Ensign? Did your superior give you a direct order, or not?”

“He did, sir.” You swallow audibly. Your cause is utterly lost. “I understand, sir.”

"I can see that the prospect distresses you," Tarkin states, "and I am not unmoved by this fact.” His gaze is soft when he continues, “I wish to lend my assistance in overcoming this weakness. Thus, I propose to alleviate the discomfort by training."

You cannot believe what you hear. How do you train for something like that?

"If you and I are better acquainted,” he continues, “it will remove the element of fear of the unknown. You will know what to expect and be able to perform with greater confidence. This is the basics of all military training.”

You are flabbergasted. How can he even suggest it? He is your support, your beacon of righteousness, the perfect example of a worthy servant of the Empire. Your mentor and the one steady rock in your floating, ever changing existence with Krennic. If Tarkin falls, if he is not who you thought him to be, what have you left to believe in?

You school your features into a mask of professionalism, hoping without hope that he has not seen your inner turmoil. Nothing escapes the Governor's piercing gaze.

"Thank you, sir," you say with a voice that trembles despite your effort. "I will... consider your offer." How can bedding Governor Tarkin twice be less frightening and awkward than doing it only once?

"See that you do, Ensign. I trust you to make the correct decision. This is all for your own good, I hope you understand that. I have no particular wish to taint myself by taking advantage of a subordinate. Nor would I covet another man’s possessions."

“Of course not, sir.”

You know he’s lying through his teeth. The rivalry between the two of them is legendary, that is common knowledge. There is little the Governor would take greater pleasure in than to lay claim to anything the Director values. He obviously can’t even accept a gift without needing to take it before it is actually given.

Your elevated image of the Governor is falling apart before your eyes. Now it dawns on you, everything about him you would have noticed from the start if you hadn’t been so caught up in hero worship. His strange interest in the intimate details of Krennic’s advances. How his hands are always under his desk when he receives your reports, his facial expression too strained for him to be composed without effort.

***

In the end, you accept Tarkin’s offer. The perfect time presents itself a week later, when the Director is called away on business.

Your feelings are a mess. A small voice in your head, one you have suppressed since your first day, keeps telling you that this is exactly what you want, that you are filthy and slutty and have desired the Governor's touch for longer than you consciously know. It is the truth, and it's mortifying. You feel so betrayed, both by him and by yourself, and so very confused.

The Governor’s invitation for the evening burns in your datapad for the better part of the day as you twist and turn the situation in your thoughts, trying to push feelings aside and assess it with some measure of logic. It is quite simple once you look at it seriously, and you realize that your reluctance, more than anything else, is due to a lack of courage. This is something you know you must overcome if you truly aspire to become an officer. An eerie calm settles in you as soon as you’ve pressed the button to schedule the meeting in your calendar. You now have an order to follow, a task to carry out, and the means to do it.

You are still calm and concentrated when you walk to Tarkin’s quarters. It suddenly strikes you as odd that Director Krennic has never invited you to his. Maybe all you need to do is ask; how come you never have? You have been afraid of the answer, of rejection. No more. If you live through this, you will ask him. You will overcome this fear as well.

Tarkin greets you with a polite nod. He’s still in uniform, all business. Just like you. You feel his gaze assessing your mood. All he will find is determination.

He looks at you for the longest time, his gaze softening gradually until he finally speaks. “Is the idea of bedding me so distasteful to you?”

His sincerity surprises you. You hesitate and your eyes drift to his rank insignia that seem to shine the brighter in the subdued light. “Negative, sir.” You stare at the coloured squares on his chest. “I’m just… overwhelmed.”

“I see.” Two fingers come beneath your chin and lift your face, forcing you to look into his eyes. “I assure you that even a Grand Moff remains an ordinary man in some aspects.”

You blink, embarrassed. “I have been such a fool, sir.”

“That is the privilege of the young. I have been one myself at times.”

You nod. Why is he suddenly so sweet, so… understanding? It just makes it more difficult to keep the shards of dignity you still have intact.

Even this he seems to understand. “Shall we get on with the proceedings then, Ensign?” He takes the lead, briskly crossing the austere room to an even smaller bedroom. The single bed occupies nearly half of the room. The modesty of Tarkin’s quarters surprises you. If he notices, he chooses not to remark on it.

"Do you have a preference of position?" he asks blatantly as he unfastens his belt.

You nearly balk. This is really going to happen. "Not really, sir,” you answer with forced composure. “Please decide."

"Very well. On your hands and knees then, near the edge." He points to the bed.

It's a relief that you will not have to look at his face as he takes you. A small grace perhaps, but you are quickly learning not to be picky. "I am ready, sir," you tell him once you’re on the bed, underwear removed.

"You are not." He takes off his tunic and hang it over the back of the room’s only chair. His fly is open, trousers held up by matching green-grey suspenders that stand out against the white shirt. He holds two fingers in front of your mouth. "Wet them for me."

You open your mouth and the digits slide in, massaging your lips and tongue for much longer than necessary. Tarkin no longer looks business-like, his thin lips stretched to the sides in a wolf-like grin.

He takes up position behind you, the wet fingers alternating between stroking your clit and teasing your entrance until your folds glisten, swollen with desire. You are silent, holding your breath, going through the alphabet from the end in your head. It almost works - only when he crooks his fingers inside you let out a small moan. You hear how he takes out his cock and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

While he slides into you, you are still telling yourself that you don’t want this, and that you are only following orders. You hold onto this thought as he begins to move, rocking his hips steadily back and forth, giving you shallow little thrusts that quickly build your arousal to impossible heights.

"Ah," he groans as your wet cunt swallows his cock to hilt. "You serve the Director so well. Krennic will be pleased to witness this."

He grips your hips with his thin hands and slams into you with a fervour that pushes you closer to completion with every thrust. He is the one silent now, his slightly laboured breathing the only witness of his efforts. You still don't want to enjoy it, you don't want to get so incredibly wet from being fucked by Governor Tarkin. He grips your hair at the nape of your neck and pulls your head up, hard. You are whimpering with each thrust now, begging and whining for him, please, sir, harder. His response is a smack to your rump that echoes in the room. Another one, and you come apart completely.

He stills, waiting you out, and then he resumes his relentless pounding. He lets go of your hair and you sink to your elbows, bowed in supplication before him. He fucks you in long strokes, with the vicious control of long practice. The bed rattles with each ferocious, measured thrust and you let out a long, keening sound, desire building rapidly again. When he finally comes with an almost inaudible grunt, he takes you with him.

It is over, done. This realization should make you overjoyed, but instead, you feel almost disappointed. You’re lying on your back and your hand touches your clit, starting to rub slowly before you even realize it. Tarkin sits in the chair now, sipping from a glass, stroking his half-hard cock with the other hand as he watches you. He notices your gaze and his cock twitches, engorging visibly.

 “Would you indulge me and play a little game?” he asks, handing you the glass.

“Sir?” You might as well, you think as you sip. The alcohol burns your throat, but the feeling is not unpleasant. It goes well with the heat already accumulated in your body. You still thrum with desire, your clenching core wants more.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he hisses as he pulls you roughly from the bed and backs you into the wall. “Let me hear your feeble protests as I claim you.”

With anybody else, this would be funny and over the top. With Tarkin, it’s all too easy to believe in the scenario. His earlier gentlemanly behaviour is gone the moment you consent, replaced by cold stares and hard hands.

“Whimper for me,” he breathes in your ear, and it is easy to comply with him pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other gropes your tits. His thigh comes between yours, holding your lower body efficiently in place.

“Governor,” you whimper. “Don’t do this. Please let me go.” You struggle and quickly realize that his domination over you is complete. This makes you incredibly wet.

 “You have tempted me for so long now,” he hisses as he plunges his fingers inside you.  “Through each of your reports I restrained myself. No longer. I will have you now, shivering with desire, whimpering around my cock. Like you do for him.”

You moan with desperation, game quickly forgotten. You want this, him, now.

He is incredibly strong and lifts you without difficulty, pushing inside with ease. “Whore,” he grunts as he fills you over and over. “Filthy, dirty whore.”

Shame…guilt… pleasure… the knowledge that you have turned this controlled officer into little more than an animal is intoxicating. So good, so good, so incredibly goooood.

“Thank you,” he pants afterwards. “That was quite remarkable. I hope you can forgive any roughness that may have escaped me in the heat of the moment.”

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

“Very well, then. You have nothing to fear when the Director gives his command. You will be prepared." He ushers you efficiently towards the door, but you hesitate to leave. The Governor looks so different like this with ruffled hair and pink cheeks. So very different from the cold, public image. He looks alive and almost human. You want to see it again.

“How long, sir?” you ask, you words staying his hand before he touches the control panel. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

He looks at you, as if undecided whether to reply or not. Eventually he does, gently cupping your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. “The day you first told me of how Krennic touched you, I know that he would make you his. I regretted my strength. I was tempted to claim you, there and then.”

Already then. You had idolized him then, seeing him as your mentor, your inspiration for great deeds in the name of the mighty Empire. You were so clueless.

“But you were strong,” you whisper. “You were strong, sir.”

“I was.” He sighs and drops his fingers to the control panel. The door slides open with a soft hiss. “We will not speak of this again, Ensign. Go.”

"Goodnight, sir. I wish you well," you tell him with complete honesty as you leave. Apparently, you still don’t know Tarkin at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm having fun with this story and hope it's entertaining you as well <3


	7. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, you’ve let Tarkin have you. How does Director Krennic react when he finds out?

After sleeping with Tarkin, reporting to him is awkward. The glimpse of humanity he allowed you to see is soon forgotten, swallowed up by the protocol, regulations and endless commands that fill your days whenever you’re not with Director Krennic. Soon, any affection you felt for the Governor upon leaving is gone. You remember only that he used you, that they both did. Another thing you cannot forget about the encounter, despite wishing to, is how much you enjoyed it. The shame distorts your views of Tarkin, clouds your vision horribly, until he, who used to be your hero, is the opposite. Still he is your highest commanding officer and your obedience to him remains absolute.

Tarkin is impeccably professional, showing no indication of being affected by your reports in any way. He just sits or stands there while you report, hands on his back, gaze distant as if he couldn’t care less. Just as on the recruitment posters. Except when you relate something the Director has said about him – then his eyes pierce you and he sneers, as if the snide remarks were yours. They could be.

Through his prim, stern, schooled sentences when he asks you for details, as a layer underlying everything he says, you can hear him whispering seductively, calling you his whore as he has his way with you. You detest him. You hate how you still burn with lust for him, and you feel the guiltier for even thinking that way about your superior, and about a man who uses you so blatantly.

So much shame, and yet so much hunger. You want him very badly and feel the more horrible for it. You don’t want to want him. There is no heart in it, he certainly doesn’t inspire affection in you. But the lust, the yearning to submit to him in all things is unbearable.

Every time after reporting to him you go straight to Director Krennic. Being bent over his desk is the only way to relieve yourself of the tension. It’s the only thing that makes you feel whole and pure again, for as long as it lasts.

He is delighted. So clueless it’s a disaster. You love him and you cannot tell him, not that, not about Tarkin, not about your feelings. Your body is all he has allowed you to share with him, and so this is what you do. Only in the aftermath of exhausting sex can you feel at peace.

“Ah, the old grump frustrates you so deliciously,” he coos as he thrusts into you at a leisurely pace. “The man is unbearable. I must remember to thank him.”

You don’t want to hear it, and you start to push back rhythmically to distract him. He stills his motions, and you continue, until he cannot bear it any longer and begins to drive in to forcefully. You both climax in seconds.

Basking in the aftermath, and after a glass of wine, he brings the subject up again.

“I wonder what I could do to show Tarkin my gratitude in a way that couldn’t be misunderstood, but will still rile him up. Hmmm. Something that would make him yearn for more, and not be able to have it. I could send him some exotic delicacy, perhaps, something in short supply but accessible to me.”

“Sir, you mentioned something a couple of weeks ago.” You hate yourself for saying it, and yet you can’t stop the words from rolling over your tongue. Just the memory of the Governor’s bony fingers in your mouth sends a shiver down your spine.

The Director chuckles and playfully touches his finger to the tip of your nose. “You believed that? I said it in jest, to teach you to submit to me. I will never give you to another. You are mine.”

You freeze, only for a second, quickly schooling your features into some sort of normalcy as you lean affectionately against him. He is quiet for a long time, stroking your hair.

 “I do appreciate your willingness to do it for me, my dove,” he eventually says, eagerness creeping into his voice. The idea that you would bed bloody Tarkin on my command is inspiring. Intoxicating, even. I may need to reward you, right now.” His eyes are gleaming with fresh arousal.

“May I ask for something, sir?”

“Ask. Unless it’s something that takes a long time to explain. I find myself growing impatient.” He strokes your thigh pointedly.

“I would like to see your quarters, sir.”

“Really, my dove? Having you in my bed would indeed be a nice change.”

“It can wait, sir, it’s not urgent.”

“Oh, it is. We regroup, now.” He still takes the time to adjust his tunic and make sure the cape is properly fastened, before taking your wrist and hurrying to the door.

Outside the office, he restricts his stride to a measured walk, tucking your hand under his elbow as if you were a dignified couple on a stroll. Not wearing any panties lends a naughty air to it and you smirk at the guards you encounter on the way.

The door looks the same as all the others in the corridor, but, once inside, you draw a breath of admiration. All the furniture is white, a striking contrast to the grey walls and floor. The sofa looks like real leather, and some furry animal’s hide covers the floor in front of the viewport, which looks larger even than the one in the station’s control room. This must be trick of the eye, due to the relative sizes of the rooms, but it is still impressive.

“It’s wonderful, sir,” you tell him honestly. “Luxurious, yet tasteful. Did you design the interior yourself?”

“Naturally,” he replies, lifting his head proudly. “This is far from my main area of expertise, but I take pleasure in dallying in it at times.”

“It’s very nice. Much nicer than Ta – “ You bite your tongue.

“Than what?”

“T-Ta-…” The word is stuck in your mouth. The Director stares at you suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

“Tarkin’s,” he provides and you see the realization dawn on him. However could you think to keep anything from him? “You have been to Tarkin’s quarters!”

You nod and involuntarily take a step back, thereby admitting your guilt.

“You have slept with him.” The accusation is issued in a calm, deadly, controlled voice. His chin is lowered now, eyes blazing with fury.

“Only-because-you-told-me-to,” you blurt out, the string of words coming fast, but not fast enough to save you. You can see that the Director is far too mad to register their meaning.

“You little whore,” he says slowly, menacingly, reaching towards you. You take a step back, and another one, and then you trip on something and fall backwards, headlong.

The Director’s hands on your hips catch you, but you drag him with you in the fall and you both crash to the floor on top of the furry rug. He has you pinned beneath him, one thigh between your legs.

“Mine,” he hisses, his whole face contorted into an ugly mask of greediness. For a second he frightens you. He looks as if he’s going to strike you. His hand trembles and you squeeze your eyes shut.

When something does touch your face it’s his mouth coming down on yours, hard. The kiss is searing, an assault with conquering lips and a vicious tongue that demands entrance and plunges inside, forcing you to open wide for him. Your hands fly to his hair and you tug and caress, craving to feel him closer still. His eyes burn with a darker flame now, and he tugs his fly open.

You feel him jerk impatiently at his trousers, cursing when the zipper gets stuck. His knuckles rub against you and its maddening, and you press up against his hand and he smirks and for a moment it’s like he’s no longer cares about what he was doing, but starts rubbing his fingers against you, grunting in cadence with your moans as you continue to buck, up and up. His face is so close, strained with effort, and you dart your tongue out to lick at his bottom lip. He stares at you, and you do it again.

He holds still, there’s a rustling of fabric and then he’s freed himself. The thick head of his length slides between your slick folds, probes your entrance and then he sinks into you with a loud growl that is almost enough to make you come on the spot. His mouth catches yours hungrily, efficiently swallowing all noise but the wet slopping of flesh against flesh as he pounds you inexorably. You cant your hips, bending and lifting your legs higher to take in all of him. His balls slap heavily against your perineum and it feels like he has hands all over you, stroking and caressing you everywhere at once and all you register is an exquisite sense of melting into him, of belonging.

It’s over much too soon; he never lasts long when he’s angry. The final stroke before he fills you with his seed is hard enough to drive you up against the viewport. He bangs his head slightly against the transparisteel when he slumps down over you. It’s a little funny, the astonished expression that for a second is overlaid on his slack, sated face, and you let out a giggle. You’re so happy like this, with his weight on top of you, his breathing close to yours. Much happier than you should be to share your ~~life~~ body with this impulsive, narcissistic and overly dramatic man.

“Yes, Director,” you pant, smiling, when he raises himself up on one elbow. “I’m all yours.”

He knits his eyebrows. “You bedded that old nerf for me?” So he has registered what you said earlier. You nod.

“Why? I told you I wanted to watch.”

“I… he… The Governor offered to train me, sir. When I reported to him.”

“What?”

“I didn’t want him, so he said it’ll be less awkward if it’s just him and me first. So I can perform better for you. When you do order me to do it.”

“The twisted…” He stops and thinks for a while, his expression becoming smug. “Did he like it? Fucking you?”

“A lot.” You fight to hold back a smile at the memory.

“Excellent.” He grins. “Then he’s begun suffering already. I forgive you. But you won’t let him touch you again. Not unless I say so.”

“What if he doesn’t care if I refuse?” Merely the thoughts about those strong, sinewy arms pinning you against the wall make you wet.

“I have means,” he says menacingly.

“He’s your superior,” you reply meekly, hoping it would make him see reason for once.

“I’ll punch his bloody face, that’s what I’ll do if he touches you again.”

“I still have to report to him.”

“See that you do. Tell him about this conversation, and give him a _detailed_ account of this night.” Your answer is drowned by a fresh series of hungry kisses.

Eventually you make it to the bed; that is after the attempted quickie against the shower wall that has to be abandoned due to the much too slippery floor. It is as luxurious as everything else, sinfully soft and large enough for three, at the very least. You lay back against the cool sheets and close your eyes, waiting for the assault, only to discover that the Director has changed his tactics.

His lips graze your skin as he moves up the silken path along your inner thighs with gentle nibbles and small kisses that take your breath away. He’s so gentle, much more so that you’d ever think him capable of. Your fingers sift through his hair affectionately, and you almost spoil everything by telling him. “Ah,” you sigh when his nose grazes your clit, and moments later, his gentleness is all but gone. He sucks your sensitive nub in between his lips, teases it relentlessly with his tongue until you buck against him and he has to hold you down.

“Please,” you beg, “please, sir!”

He chuckles and runs his fingers along your slick folds, tormenting you until you quit struggling. You can feel his smile against your skin, approving. And then, finally, he fills you with his fingers, thrusting hard and fast into you while he continues to tease you with his mouth. When you come apart, it’s so powerful you see white.

You are still shuddering with the blissful aftermath when he enters you. He has your legs up, your feet on his shoulders as he takes his pleasure, fucking you into the mattress with jerking, erratic thrusts that tell you he’s already close.

“Yours, Director,” you moan. “Yours… yours… yours…”

When he comes, he _growls_. The mere sound of it makes you whimper. You already want him again.  

When the new day comes, you wake first. You are disoriented at first, the bed too soft, the room unfamiliar. The warmth from his arm around your waist makes you remember.

He looks so innocent in his sleep. So young, unspoilt by ambition. You allow yourself to wonder what it would be like to live with him, to have mornings like this, always. At least you can dream while he’s like this. In a moment he will wake up, and it’ll be gone. You may belong to him, but he isn’t yours. Whatever the Governor said when you were assigned this duty, you know that Director Krennic is only a loan. You will leave him when the year is up, to pursue your own career. However lovely for a time, you could not spend the rest of your working life as a powerful man’s play-thing. At times like these, you honestly wish you could.

Wistful thinking goes out an airlock as soon as he does wake.

“Today I’ll have my caf afterwards,” he declares briskly.

“After what, sir?”

With a smirk, he pulls the sheet aside to reveal a glorious hard-on. “What do you think? I expect our morning routine to continue as usual despite the change of venue.”

***

You realize over the next couple of weeks that you love Director Krennic very much. It’s your secret; it does hurt that he must never know, but it’s a good ache, like from exercising, or after a particularly vigorous night. It reminds you of him. It’s fitting in a way; it chafes on your soul like a favourite, but uncomfortable, item of clothing.

Tarkin you cannot love. You lust for him, with a dark, festering want. A fire that threatens to consume you should you dare to step too close. You burn with hunger when he deigns to look at you, and you hate it. How he betrayed your trust in him, proving to be just another, ordinary man. And yet, you burn for him.

Tarkin sometimes look at you with softness. It is despicable, sickening, this sweetness that is a lie. He reminds you of a snake on those occasions, a hunter luring its prey with a meek decoy. Ready to spring a trap. You prefer when his hunger is out in the open, raw, undisclosed, out to devour. It makes your knees buckle and your cunt clench, calls forth a rush of wetness between your thighs. It is the hidden threat you fear; the overt predator is welcome. You long to see him move in for the kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end: A bit of angst, a bit of fluff, and a good measure of smut. This chapter has it all, lol!  
> I’m sorry to say you’ll probably have to wait longer than usual for the next chapter. I’ll be on vacation, visiting relatives with my family and there simply won’t be any opportunities to sneak off to write smut. It’s difficult enough with just husband and children around ;-)


	8. Verified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin becomes a willing witness to your loss of control, and Krennic has something to celebrate (which he does, in a carnal manner). You simply enjoy, despite conflicted feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but hopefully all the smut will make up for it. Next chapter will be posted on Saturday, and with that I will return to the regular schedule :-)

When next you report to Tarkin, you can no longer contain your desire. You go straight to his desk. He watches you in silence as you straddle the corner, the slightest hint of pink on his cheeks the only indication of his interest. He quirks an eyebrow when you remain still, your hands gripping the sides of the desk while your crotch hovers just above. Your gaze is glued to his as you lower your hips, the wood wedging itself in perfectly between your thighs.

The pressure against your core is delightful, and just by sliding ever so slightly back and forth you can let the desk corner massage your entire slit. Your heavy panting fills the room, breath hitching every time the wood touches a particularly itchy spot. The Governor’s hands are on the desktop, just inches from your face as you lean forward to position the desk corner right against your entrance. Your panties are in the way, but the edge pushes delightfully hard against them. You breathe through your nose, determined to contain any noise. For some reason, this seems to excite the Governor even further. His hands are trembling now.

“Please,” you whine. “I need… I…”

“You know I cannot touch you,” he pronounces in that clipped voice that arouses you even more, at the same time as it makes you feel so guilty. “Not in here,” he continues. “These are official premises, meant to remain _pristine_.” You feel so filthy and it’s incredible.

“Please, Governor, sir,” you whisper. “I am… bad.”

“Indeed you are. A slut and a wanton.”

“You still want me. Sir.”

“The difference between a gentleman and a commoner is that the former can control his desires.” He truly is in control now, sounding cold and collected, the greater contrast to your writhing.

“Please…”

“Cease this pitiful begging. I have something to _alleviate_ your condition – notably, without challenging my resolve to honour Krennic’s childish pact.”

He opens a drawer and produces a ceremonial staff with a bulbous head. It is an ancient item, that much you can see even in your lust-filled state. The rod is wooden, a reddish brown of a similar kind to the desk itself. The bottom is covered with yellowish metal; the likewise metallic top is a thick, round ball. A family heirloom, perhaps, from long bygone days.

The staff is left on the desk while he rises to stand behind you.

“Flip up your skirt,” he commands in an even voice. “And remove your panties.”

You swallow audibly, but hasten to do as he says, fearing now that you will come to regret your brazenness very soon. Your eyes never leave the staff. It looks like it will _hurt_.

When the staff does touch you, it is wielded very gently. The head grazes the cleft between your buttocks, then travels down between your thighs. The metal is cold against your folds.

“Restrain yourself,” Tarkin admonishes when you flinch.

You breathe through your nose, bearing the treatment until your heated flesh has lent the instrument some warmth and it glides easily, slickened. That is when he pushes it inside you, slowly and with care, just the tiniest bit before he begins to rapidly drag it back and forth. You are moaning loudly now, writhing and pushing and so almost, almost there. The staff is removed, but then you feel the wood against your buttocks; being held there across them, pressing into your flesh as you grind against the desk corner with a new fervour.

“Now,” he says, and only then you understand that you have been waiting for permission.

This is no longer for Krennic, you realize as your shameful climax overtakes you, if it has ever been at all. It is for you, only for you. You keep telling yourself that the Director pushed you into the Governor’s arms. That may be true, but perhaps he was only the unknowing catalyst for something that would have happened anyway. In any case, it is not he who makes you continue. You hate the Governor. Hate him. How he only has to lay his eyes on you and you want him. How he looks at you mildly, innocuously and it makes you burn.

“So passionate,” he declares in that affectionate voice that is so _wrong_ , coming from him.

“Thank… thank you, sir,” you say softly, eyes firmly trained at the desk as you rise and straighten your clothes.

“I will see you again in three days’ time.” He is cold and professional again.

“Yes, sir.”

You despise yourself for allowing his voice to manipulate you. He did not touch you. You could walk away any moment. Only you can’t. His voice and gaze enthral you, put you firmly in his clutches. Oh how you hate him. Do you, now?

***

Nobody has told you, but you have felt the tension among the battle station’s staff since morning. Something special will happen today, another test probably, but a more important one. There is nothing you can do to contribute, not in your current role, and not for the first time you envy all those who actually do something useful, who actually work, and don’t just allow themselves to be used. It cannot be long now until the station is fully operational, and then, you will again be free to become a real officer –

“The control room. Now.” Director Krennic’s voice over the comlink is agitated, eager, yet tense.

You are on your way, instantly. Excitement fills you as you hasten along the corridors, and you feel a strong pull to be at his side. You haven’t lost track of your goal, but you will allow yourself to enjoy the detour with the Director for as long as it lasts.

His head turns to the doorway when you enter, then immediately whips back to the viewport again. He curls a finger and you rush to his side. He slips behind you, standing so close your nose almost touches the cool surface.

“So beautiful,” he purrs in your ear. You have no illusions – he isn’t referring to you, but to the reddish-brown cloud that rises from the planet beneath. A result of his work, no doubt. His hand is under your tunic now and he’s pressing, no grinding, into your behind. You blush. Thankfully, you can’t see the faces of the other people in the room.

Tarkin clears his throat.

“Gentlemen, let us leave the Director to enjoy his triumph with the minimum of privacy he has failed to seek on his own volition. Seeing as he has no decorum to suggest it himself, nor take his celebrations elsewhere.”

His acerbic comment makes you turn your head to glance at him. Just then, the director brushes against your little nub and you _moan_ , watching Tarkin as the others file out. The governor is last, his cold stare directed at you as he continues. “We convene in the mess hall in fifteen minutes. I trust that is enough, Director.”

“It will be,” Krennic growls. “Just go.”

Tarkin purses his lips and turns on his heel.

Director Krennic pushes you against the viewport.

His small grunts are driving you mad. A rush of power surges through you, throbs and pulses inside. The passion, the urgency, knowing that he is this desperate for _you_. The reddish-brown cloud still undulates below.

“Hold still,” he hisses. You feel his fingers work at his fly, and then they are at the crotch of your panties, pulling them to the side. You tilt your hips and uh! He sets a frantic pace from the start, pushing you into the viewpoint. His hands hold your hips, pressing down as he thrusts up into you. Something hard pokes against your behind, and there is a rattling sound of metal against metal. He hasn’t removed his belt; the handle of his blaster pokes at you with each thrust. This urgency is so dirty, so filthy, and desperate and reckless…

It is over much too quickly. The director comes with a loud ‘fuck!’ and thrusts a couple of times after that, breathing heavily into your ear as he pulls out. You need more and as he tucks himself in and straightens his tunic, he notices your hand dipping against your front.

“Come here,” he says in a low voice, beckoning. The kiss he pulls you into is searing, hard and delivered with precision. His gloved hand finds your clit and rubs it efficiently as he whispers into your ear what a perfect slut you are, all his. Only his. You hold on to him, riding his hand.

“You need to go, sir” you remind him, your voice coming out in a throaty moan. “The meeting…”

“Not until you come.” He pinches hard, then resumes the gentle rubbing. “Now, little slut,” he whispers hoarsely. “Come on my fingers… come… now.” And you do, trembling and shaking, clutching at his shoulders, creasing the cape as he continues to finger you until you are quiet.

His fingertips come out glistening.

“Sir… can I clean them for you?”

He chuckles at your half-open mouth. “Not today. Let it serve as a reminder to all that I have what they don’t. I need to go now. You heard him.” You nod.

“What are you celebrating, sir?”

“I have destroyed a city.”

His expression is filled with wonder, before pride overtakes him. You are reminded that even if the man you love at times seems to have a heart, he remains ruthless. ‘He was high on success’, you tell yourself. Not aroused by destruction. To be honest, you don’t know which is true. You prefer not to find out.

He offers you a rakish salute, his blue eyes glittering with mirth. He is so handsome in that moment, looking so unabashedly happy that it makes you want to cry. Hastily, you turn towards the viewport, blinking as you hear him leave with confident strides.

There are marks on the transparisteel, blurred fingerprints, smudges from where your lips pressed against it. Much lower, a sheen of moisture that makes you clench at the sight.

The dust on the planet below has settled somehow, clouds still drifting, obscuring the light. For the first time you doubt your choice of profession. Were you really cut out to participate in destruction of this scale, with countless civilians being eradicated as regrettable, but necessary side-effects of the operations necessary to ensure victory over the rebel terrorists?

With a conscious effort, you turn your thoughts to Director Krennic again. He is the enthusiastic target of your operation. You smile to yourself and your hand drifts towards your crotch again, pressing the fabric in between your thighs.

A cough behind you makes you jump. You turn around and see a young man step out from behind a console, blushing.

“Eh, Ensign,” he stutters. “I have orders to escort you out of this room. I’m sorry, but we really need to leave now… I…the meeting?”

“Of course, Ensign.”

***

The evening finds you in Director Krennic’s lap, bouncing on his cock and holding on to his desk. This time he has removed his belt with the blaster. It still rattles ominously.

“Is it done now? The station, I mean.”

“Almost.” He stills, seating you down. “It is only a matter of last checks.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Good. You should be. Now shut up a let me finish… this.” He lifts you up and pushes you right back again, making you yelp with surprise. This is repeated a couple of times, and just when you’re getting used to it and begin to enjoy it, he changes his mind.

“Up,” he growls, himself rising. You bend over the desk. He buries one hand in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other finds your clit. You realize he still has his gloves on.

“Please, sir,” you moan as he begins to thrust into you roughly. “Oh please, oh sir, directo-o-o-r!”

“Moan for me, slut,” he hisses and pulls your hair harder. You arch your back, whimpering with each stroke, eyes trained on the blaster that rattles with its master’s rhythm.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of using a desk as a masturbation aid is borrowed from the excellent ‘Regulation Furniture’ by MadameClutch, do read if you haven’t already, it’s the ultimate in desk sex if you ask me! 
> 
> I realize that wood may not be used much for furniture on the Death Star, but I like the idea of Tarkin having some heirlooms he insists on bringing to wherever he's stationed.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Rewarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A work-related visit to Scarif base brings expected pleasures, as well as a tale of the unexpected.

Over the next couple of days, the mobile battle station changes locations several times. The feeling is odd – the station is so vast that you don’t really notice the movement as it happens, but at the same time, if you concentrate, you can hear the soft whirring of fans increasing slightly, and, at least in your imagination, this is the evidence of mighty machinery pumping in the bowels of the powerful beast to send it prowling through space. All those circuits and cylinders and whatnot… all the wonders of engineering you haven’t really spared a thought. Even if you only imagine those things, at least you can sense the change in all personnel you encounter. There’s a collective feeling of pride and joy and accomplishment, but also vigilance. The station is ready. This is real.

The view from Director Krennic’s office is breath-taking. In the midst of familiar black speckled with white is a blue orb. There must be so much water on that planet, more than you have ever seen. Probably cities as well, but from here, the surface appears uninhabited. The realization chills you. This place may be a testing ground for the weapon. It must not be… it cannot be… it’s too beautiful, too pristine. So much water. Surely, the Empire cannot allow that to go to waste…surely, the director cannot destroy such a treasure?

You know he can, and so you don’t ask.

“That’s Scarif,” he says casually as he produces a bottle from the cupboard and pours himself a glass. “I need to work in the archive on the planet surface tomorrow. You will accompany me.”

The chill in your stomach lifts so quickly all you can do is stare at him as he lifts the glass to his lips and drinks, eyes locked with yours.

“I would have thought such an announcement would meet with more enthusiasm,” he says with a pout. “Some display of gratitude, even.”

“Of course, Director, I’m sorry.” You rush to his side and, taking your cue from his opened arms, snuggle up against him, placing a peck where neck meets jaw. “I was just overwhelmed. These are wonderful news.”

He grunts with affirmation and tugs you closer, a hand slipping lower to grab your arse. You kiss him again, and he takes another sip. Your head rests against his shoulder and you relish simply being close to him, breathing in his scent, wishing for the impossible. You want to keep him.

The glass clinks as he sets it down, and he grabs your behind a last time before distancing himself to pluck with his papers.

“Off you go,” he says, “I need to pack.”

“In a moment, sir. Is there something I should bring, to facilitate your work? What do you need me to pack?”

“As little as possible.” He lifts his head and rakes his gaze over your body in a very unprofessional manner.

“Director… is this shore leave?”

“For you, mostly. You may think of it as such. You will still be expected to provide me with the customary level of _service_ , of course.”

You swallow. It’s suddenly extremely difficult not to insist on offering a sample then and there. “Of course, sir,” you say, and turn away quickly before you can overstep your boundaries.

“Ensign,” he calls, when you’re about to leave the room. “There will be beaches and palm trees and a turquoise blue ocean if you enjoy that sort of thing.” When you turn to look at him again he’s practically beaming at you with pride and accomplishment. A man immensely happy with himself.

You are helpless to prevent the smile that lights up your entire being. “Thank you, sir. I look forward to tomorrow.”

***

Walking alongside Director Krennic to the shuttle bay makes you feel important. He has chosen to bring you with him, and now he’s letting you hold his elbow as if you were a normal couple out on a stroll. The contingent of death troopers falling in behind you detracts somewhat from the experience, but not much.

As you approach Scarif you are awed for the umpteenth time by the accomplishments of the Empire. The security arrangements are impressive, the shield another marvel of technology, and the base itself…

Scarif is more than you could ever dream of. You walk barefoot on sand, with the warm wind in your hair. And there’s so much water. Never-ending waves crash softly against the shore. Mighty trees rustle in the wind, the occasional fruit lands in the sand with a soft thud. Simply sitting on the beach fills you with immense happiness. Not even the presence of one of the director’s guards clouds your mind. Smiling, you recall the conversation you had before setting out to spend a lazy day on the beech while he would be working.

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” you had told him.

“What do you need it for?”

“There are people around.”

“This is an imperial navy base. Of course there are people around. They all have their orders. Besides, this ‘trooper will watch over you.”

“He’ll watch me all the time?”

“He will ensure your safety. And yes, he will watch. And no, he will not molest you.”

In spite of this reassurance, you stay mostly on land, preferring to watch the sea rather than try to immerse yourself into it. The idea is rather frightening and it is enough to stand at the edge and let the waves lap at your feet, or soak up sunlight lying on a blanket. The datapad you brought for distraction proves quite useless in the bright light.

After your improvised lunch, you move into the shade underneath the trees, closing your eyes for a quick nap. You are awakened by the sound of boots marching. There shouldn’t be any soldiers here; you specifically chose a segment of the beach without military installations. You sit up abruptly, looking in the direction of the sound. The sight that meets your eyes nearly stops your breathing.

Director Krennic is approaching, fast. A determined look is on his face, and he’s walking in a quick stride, cape billowing behind him. He’s accompanied by his honour guard, their dark, menacing presence a surreal contrast to the tranquil surroundings. The sound changes distinctively as they leave the tarmac road, stepping onto the sand. With a wave of his hand the guards are dispatched, suddenly almost out of sight behind trees and bushes. So many of them, sealing off this strip of beach. Only the director still approaches, coming at you with a determination that makes you ache for him at the same time as the thrill of excitement is almost too much. You would be terrified if you didn’t know him so well.

Involuntarily, you scoot away from him, just inches, but still. He parts his lips in a sinister grin, closing in on you in sure strides until he stands over you, one boot firmly planted on each side of your knee. He says nothing, just unfastens his belt and lets it falls into the sand with a heavy thud, blaster and all. You flinch, backing another inch, swallowing as you watch him remove his tunic and cape – these are flung over a branch – and then, slowly unfasten his fly.  

He does that, and then nothing. Not until an undignified whine slips from your lips at the sight of his bulging erection straining against his underwear, the length clearly outlined against the fabric. He is upon you in seconds, grunting as he presses into you with urgency. You wrap your legs around his back, lifting up and meeting each thrust, whimpering in turn with his grunts. The whole thing is hard and fast and over much too soon. He claims your mouth greedily at the same time as he twists your little nub until finally he draws a reluctant orgasm from your body.

He pulls out with a groan of satisfaction, then tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Only then you notice. “Gloves, Director? Here?”

He looks at you sheepishly. “They turn you on.”

“They do,” you whisper and wet your lips. “Stay a little longer?”

“Duty calls.” He sighs and rises, brushing sand from his trousers as he pulls them up. “Don’t attempt to distract me.”

“Sorry, sir.” You get to your feet as well, pulling the blanket around you. “How was your day so far?” He winces, clearly unhappy to be reminded. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head.”

“Bearable,” he says and tucks himself back into his trousers. “Now, almost decent. Tonight – “. He pauses. “Tonight it will be fine.” He puts on his tunic and fastens the belt around his waist after shaking it thoroughly.

“Less sand, perhaps, sir? Tonight, I mean.”

“Definitely.” He gives a command and his black-armoured troopers fall into line behind him. You are grateful for their helmets. Those who didn’t see certainly heard, and they must all _know_. It’s silly to feel embarrassed after all this time as the director’s _assistant_ , and still you do.

“Make sure to try the tidal pools,” he says when parting. “They have a rather interesting history. I’ll tell you later.” He winks, grinning before he schools his features into something more befitting of a commander and marches off.

Your borrowed guard doesn’t move a muscle when you drop the blanket, totally nude except for where sand clings to your sweaty skin. Modesty is hardly an issue any longer, and the glittering water beckons to you.

Near a cliff, the water has dug out circular shapes in the stone, surrounded by edges where harder rock has been left more or less intact. The crater-like structures are filled with water now, only the highest part of the jagged edge protruding above the surface. Careful not to slip, you gingerly step into the nearest pool and lie down. The shallow water here is warmer than that of the surrounding ocean, and parts of the bottom is covered in soft, green seaweed that is rather pleasant once you get used to how it brushes against your skin. After a while, you turn onto your belly and let the water slosh over your back and shoulders. Small, nearly transparent, crustaceans run across the cliff, casting themselves into the water as they near the edge only to crawl back a while later. They look harmless enough and watching them becomes near hypnotic. You could almost fall asleep here.

By the time the setting sun and a suddenly restless trooper announce that is time to leave, your fingers and toes look like dried fruit, and despite your repeated soaks, you feel like you have sand everywhere. Your skin feels slightly sore from the sun and the salt, yearning now for cool sheets more than heated kisses. You hope the director will be gentle tonight.

He is more relaxed than you have ever seen him, reclined against the sheets of the immense bed. A window is open, gauzy curtains moving slowly in the breeze. Dinner was perfect, dessert creatively enjoyed, the shower had real water and lights and scent to augment the experience and now you are lying in bed, sated and refreshed.

“You promised to tell me about the tidal pools, sir,” you remind him. “What’s so interesting about them? Except for the obvious, I mean. They’re very nice to bathe in.”

He smirks and runs his fingers along your spine.

“It’s not the pools themselves as much as the creatures that inhabit them.”

“The crabs? They are fun to watch.”

“There are others,” he continues, trailing his fingers lower. “Tentacled beings that come near the shore to lay their eggs at a certain period of the year.”

“Really? I saw nothing like that.”

“It masquerades itself quite cleverly like drifting seaweed, letting itself float until it comes across a warm body.” He traces your thighs now, fresh arousal in their wake.

“What then?” You can imagine where this is going, particularly with how he nudges your legs apart while his thumb circles your clit. “You… ah… you can’t be serious.”

“Very much so,” he says with a hurt look in his innocent eyes. “The eggs must incubate in a living host. The princes of old used to make their concubines lie in the pools until they were stuffed full with eggs.”

“How weird. It sounds cruel, too.” The very idea of carrying alien eggs inside makes you shudder.

“To the contrary,” he coos, continuing to stroke you as he lectures. “The process is said to be quite enjoyable for the recipient; apparently the ovipositor is soft and pliable, and the insertion is performed together with other stimulation. Sadly, these creatures are nearly extinct now, having been harvested for spas where they are enjoyed by some pervert.”

“That’s sad, indeed. But, hmm, what happened to the concubines? With the eggs, I mean? Don’t they need to be removed?”

“Oh, of course. And the best way to do that is to squash them, with the prince’s own implement.” He looks pointedly to his crotch and runs a finger along the length.

“Maybe I was taken advantage of in the water,” you say. “What if a tentacle creature snuck up on me? Maybe it has deposited its eggs inside of me and I don’t even know.”

“Then you will have to tell the majordomo of your house about the suspicions, and he will determine what needs to be done with you.”

“How?” You tremble with excitement.

“He will have to feel for himself, of course. Slip his thick fingers inside you and feel thoroughly for eggs. It shouldn’t be difficult for someone experienced, although he may want to drag out the process. He rarely gets to feel up the prince’s property, after all.”

“And if he finds eggs there?”

“Then they will need to be squashed. He will tell the prince, and the prince decides who gets the honour. It could be someone he wants to reward.”

“Maybe it’s the majordomo.”

“It might be. Especially if the concubine has been naughty and needs to be put in her place.”

“I think she has.”

“Then the prince will tell her to kneel before his throne, with her forehead pressed to the floor and her arse in the air. The majordomo can hardly believe his eyes when he sees her on display like that, still wet from his earlier ministrations.”

“And he _takes_ her.”

“He does. Oh, he does, have no worries. He would make it last, but he knows that a certain forcefulness is necessary to crush the eggs. One by one they spill their contents inside her as he fucks her, eventually mingling with the man’s own come, and by the time it’s done, she’s dripping. It’s absolutely _filthy_.

“And is she satisfied?”

“Very. She felt humiliated and exposed at first, but now, she is content and happy to serve the prince for the rest of her days.”

“She kisses his boots in gratitude. And he pets her hair affectionately. And then they retreat to a luxurious bed.” You don’t quite succeed in stifling a yawn.

“You seem to enjoy these stories, my sleepy dove. Should I make you my concubine, hmm?”

“Please do, sir.”

“Very well, then you are. Then I will also tell you that tomorrow night, the prince has invited the Grand Vizier to share his concubine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve borrowed the concept of the naughty tentacle creature from the delightfully depraved ‘Ebb and Flow’ by MoonwalkingCrab, which in turn is based on a Kylux Eggstravaganza prompt.  
> Oh, and I always forget to mention that I do have a Tumblr now, if you are interested. It’s not terribly exciting at this point, I’m afraid, but there are a couple of shorter stories that I haven’t posted on AO3, and more will be added.
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://perfecttimemachinestranger.tumblr.com/)


	10. The Grand Vizier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Krennic prepares his concubine for the Grand Vizier’s visit, there’s more talk about alien eggs, and a lot of bedroom activities (and one in the refresher as well).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are, my friends, +5k of smut :-)  
> Thank you so much for comments and kudos, and special thanks to Ashley_Winchester_77 for suggesting something that comes up in this chapter… you know what!

Sleepy as you are, Director Krennic’s announcement of the ’Grand Vizier’s’ impending visit makes it impossible to rest. As soon as you close your eyes, your head fills with images of what this visit might entail and you feel a familiar tingling sensation between your thighs. You know sleep won’t come unless the director takes mercy on you.

“Sir,” you whisper, relieved when he stirs to wrap an arm around you. You place a small kiss on his lips, just one, and then pull away.

“Tease,” he grumbles, but he does open his eyes.

 “Please tell me more about the major-domo of the prince’s household.”

“The one where you are a concubine?”

You nod and drape yourself over him, holding yourself up on your elbows. “I have been swimming again, in those pools where the creatures are, and I think I saw at least one, and it touched me, and…” You grind against his thigh, moaning into his ear.

“You are eager tonight. I like that.” He grabs your bottom, pressing you harder against him. “Very well. Hmm… where to begin… don’t distract me now, or you won’t get any story.”

“I’ll be good, I promise.” You kiss him again.

“Behave! The major-domo of your house is a large man, with a bald, shaved head. He is known for his cruelty and feared at the prince’s all properties.” He glances at you, and you nod. This is the perfect start. Thoughts of that awful man rubs you exactly the right way tonight.

“He whips the slaves for the slightest infractions”, he continues, “and he would like nothing better than to do that to you, too.”

“But he can’t, because I’m the prince’s prized possession and he wants to keep me safe.”

“Indeed, but the major-domo can dream… He knows the prince will deal with your insolence if you cross him. But he uses every opportunity he has to touch you, and just looking at you when you come to him, asking him softly to feel for eggs makes him _hard_.”

The director is, too, and though you try to keep still, you feel him against you. “His loincloth is tented,” you say, “and I bite my lip shyly, but I have to go and lie across his thighs.”

“He watches you draped over his lap like that and his meaty hands glide over your bottom. He pats your thigh and –“

“I open my legs for him, like I know I must do.”

Feeling him touch you as he talks is nearly too good… his words, his hands wrap you in a lust-filled haze and you grind against him gently as he continues speaking.

“The major-domo’s fingers are thick, almost feeling like a cock when he rubs over your exposed entrance. You are quickly getting wet from how he fingers your cunt.”

“Ah…ah…it feels exquisite. I bite back a moan, but I know he heard it. It’s mortifying, so humiliating to enjoy this treatment.”

He smirks. “His fleshy digit presses into you, slowly, and you tense up a bit. As soon as you relax he thrusts it in roughly, stabbing at the eggs even if he is supposed to only feel for them.”

“I press my legs together to remind him.” You to that, catching his hand between your thighs, trapping it, clenching against it, you’re so close now, so close…

The unexpected smack of his other hand as it lands on your bottom instantly pulls your attention back to him.

“The major-domo lands a swat to your thighs, annoyed with your impudence. But then he goes slower, crooking his finger inside you, making you moan helplessly. Then, his finger gathers your juices and drags a wet track along the crack of you cheeks, up to you puckered hole.”

At this unusual feeling you start squirming a little. “She’s not sure about that,” you whisper, still incredibly turned on but also a little unsure whether this is something you want to continue with.

“He has to take a firm grip in her hair to make her stop squirming. With the other hand, he circles her tight opening, prodding and teasing. She holds her breath, hoping for mercy, or not. At this point her thoughts are clouded with unfulfilled lust. He presses on and –“

You let out a strangled yelp.

“The new intrusion feels –“ He waits.

“Strange,” you supplement.

“And yet, it is a fullness that makes her –“

“Curious.”

“Stop fussing, it’s barely a fingertip, the major-domo hisses and wiggles it, making her clench around it.”

“Nghhhnngn.”

“He shakes his head. This concubine is far too tight for any tentacle to have entered her that way. It’s different with well-used pleasure slaves. But she moaned so delightfully with his fingers in her cunt that he almost forgot she is new. The prince prefers to complete his concubines’ training himself. He takes great pleasure in breaking them in.”

The pressing fullness is suddenly gone, just when you had begun to get used to it.

“We’re done here,” the director declares with another swat to your behind. “Move.”

“And?”

“What?” He’s using his normal voice now, but it slips back into the sleazy major-domo’s. “What,” he asks again.

“What is your verdict, master? About the eggs?” You remember your manners and try to sound like a respectful concubine.

“You’re full of them, of course. Better let the prince fuck them out of you at once.”

“Thank you, master.”

“It was my pleasure, he says with a leer that makes you shudder.” He changes his voice again. “That’s enough stories for a night, I believe. And more than enough of teasing.”

“Thanks, sir. It’s a great story. But what happens then, with the concubine?” You grind against his thigh. “Please continue, just a little more. I need to know. Please?”

“She does as she was advised,” he growls. “These eggs are a dangerous business and she’s horny as fuck after being fingered by the major-domo.”

It’s true, and yet you’re not ready to let go of the scenario. “Where is the prince? On his throne?”

“Definitely.” There’s a glint in his eyes when he continues and pushes you off of him. “But he’s busy considering the future of his empire and she has to beg him for it.”

“Like this?” You get up onto your knees, then stare at him pleadingly and squeak in a high-pitched voice. “Please, your highness, I need your powerful member. Please relieve your servant of her misery.”

“Eggs again? This is tiresome. Beg better.”

“Please, oh royal highness who is the reason for my existence, put your mighty rod inside of me.”

“I might consider it,” he delivers in a condescending tone that is all Director Krennic, with no trace of any exotic prince. It makes you break out of character, too.

“Fuck me already, sir!”

“Is my concubine that desperate?”

“Just do it, or I’ll go find one of those pleasure slaves.”

He feigns shock. “Very well, you may join me.” He takes leans back onto his arms, inviting you.

You take the head of his cock into your mouth a couple of times and then straddle him. He remains passive, waiting for you to put his cock into you yourself. You take it all inside, seating yourself slowly, moaning as you are filled. It feels sinful to have him under you for once, enjoying how he watches you, feeling his hands on your hips as he grows impatient. So good, and not enough.

“Sir,” you tell him panting. “This may not break all the eggs…”

“Ah, then we need to start over again. Bend over the throne.”

You brace yourself against the headboard and he positions himself behind you.

“There,” he declares with a groan after thrusting in. “I got one.”

“There are more,” you moan, “please, sir, highness, many more.”

“Are there? Have no fear, my precious concubine. I will crush them all.”

He fucks you forcefully in long, inexorable strokes with a wicked twist at the end that has you screaming for him over and over again.

“That was all,” he declares. “But just to make sure, I will… ah…” He sets a punishing pace that makes everything whiten out in seconds, and then he just goes on and on, until you are once again pressing back against him, begging for more, until your hoarse whines for “more, please, your highness,” push him over the edge.

After that, your sleep is deep and dreamless.

***

“I meant what I said about concubine training,” Director Krennic declares when you have delivered his morning blowjob and coffee in bed.

“I’m not your concubine for real, sir,” you remind him softly, however titillating the prospect. “They’re as extinct as the tentacle creatures.”

“In this system they may be. But you are still my concubine for as long as we are here.”

“If you say so, sir. Or should I call you ‘Your Royal Highness’?”

“Sir is fine… the other is a bit long to use in bed. But you will address the Grand Vizier as His Excellency tonight.”

“It’s just Governor Tarkin, isn’t it?” Your words may be casual, but the idea of bedding him again thrills you to no end. You should loathe it, and him, but you can’t fight this dark desire.

“His Excellency the Grand Vizier Tarkin is worthy of the finest treatment. I plan to give him a lot to remember and yearn for in despair during all his lonely nights. Like this.” He pulls you on top of him so that you straddle his thigh. His hands grab your bottom, making the soft flesh jiggle. You hate that, but don’t have the heart to tell him. Or it’s just that you know he wouldn’t listen. He does it again, and then pulls your cheeks apart, resting a fingertip against your anus. You hold your breath. “Sir, I have never…” you let out in a small voice.

“I will enjoy being your first.” His voice is full with confidence, a feeling you don’t reciprocate.

“Please, is this really…”

“Fear not, my dove. I will be gentle. And tonight, you will be ready to practically strangle Tarkin with how tight you are.”

He eases you off of him and guides you to lie on your belly with your legs apart. His mouth kisses your thighs and he laps between them, one hand eases under you to tease your clit while his tongue is suddenly… there. Between your cheeks, and it feels weird, but good, and you don’t mind even when a hard but very slippery finger pushes inside. You push up against it, and grind down against the hand beneath, and it’s better than tolerable, and you’re even almost theeeere… He uses your moment of bliss to withdraw his finger and replace it with the softer, but much wider, head of his cock. Something slippery and cool drips onto your heated flesh, and then all you feel is so – full –

“You can take it,” he groans, his voice nearly a growl. “Just a little more now…ah…” His words are lost in series of low-pitched groans. You feel him twitching inside, as if holding back takes all his resolve. “So good,” he coos, “so perfect, so _tight_ , I just have to - “

He pulls back and pushes in again and you know his movements must be tiny but it feels – nghh – how it fee-ee-eels – like – aaaah – too – much! And then the hand underneath you shifts, and you lift up a little and it strokes you right – there – and he’s grunting now, incoherently, and even if it feels weird to have his cock up your arse you can do it, for him, for just hearing what it does to him. It blows his mind.

***

The anticipation is killing you. You look forward to the evening with longing and dread, and nothing you do is enough to take your mind off of it. Him. You want Tarkin, and you want Krennic, and the idea of one giving you to the other is almost as potent as that of entertaining them both at the same time.

Krennic wears gloves to work again. He looks at you quizzically while putting them on, slowly, teasingly. You remain stoic. You will not throw yourself at him.

“Good,” he says and lifts your chin with that gloved hand, then kisses you all too gently. “Save yourself for tonight. That’s an order.” He salutes you in that half-serious way that always makes your knees buckle.

Today, the sea brings you no peace. You lie on the beach and listen for boots marching over the sand. Just looking at the tidal pools makes you fantasise about the imaginary major-domo’s fingers. And the sea itself, overwhelming and alluring and able to crush you even on a beautiful day like this. The waves stir up the pebbles at the shore line and they tumble, around and around, as much in a turmoil as your head. If the station is indeed completed now, what will you do? Stay, and never get to use your brains? Leave, and see your heart crushed?

Eventually, you come to the conclusion that worrying about the future will not change the outcome of whatever will happen in the evening. It’s better to just let it wash over you like the waves… stirring… soothing… In the afternoon, you are ready to face another fear. You take a deep breath and walk into the sea. And you swim, feeling strong and free.

When the evening comes, you are ready to embrace it. You look at your image in the mirror and see an exotic dream. It’s a long time since you wore anything else than a uniform and the contrast is appealing. The thin, transparent material of your dress clings to your body in some places, in others it flutters enticingly when you move. It’s hardly a dress at all, more resembling a number of veils that have attached themselves to your body in an attractive manner. A broad belt around your waist is all that hold them together. You move your hips tentatively and listen to the gentle jingle of the round pieces of metal adorning it.

“Coins,” says Krennic, and you look at him, not understanding. “Credits,” he explains, tugging at one and pulling you towards himself. “This shows how much I’ve paid for your services.”

“Really? I’m expensive, then.”

“Indeed. Better show you’re worth it.” The dirty look he gives you goes straight to your core.

“Now, my prince?” You lean back against him, gyrating your hips while holding onto his thighs.

“No, you wanton slut. We wait for our guest.”

Tarkin is punctual. You keep in the background while Director Krennic greets him, not only civilly, but generously, cordially. Tarkin answers with a stiff nod, obviously not entirely prepared to play along.

“Welcome, Your Excellency,” you say, almost sinking to the floor in a deep curtsey.

He stares, then quickly finds himself.

“What happened to ‘governor’? Ensign?”

“Just a little bit of local flavour,” Krennic explains, “for the sake of fun. You and I may still be in uniform, but there is no ensign here. This is my concubine. Tonight, she will service us both.”

Tarkin nods stiffly, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He lets you rid him of the tunic, but he refuses to go as far as rolling up his shirt-sleeves the way the director has. They both keep their boots on, their distinct steps a clear contrast to your bare-footed pattering.

They sit down by the balcony. The window is open and the rapidly setting sun colours everything in warm, rosy hues. You hand them each a glass of sparkling wine, bowing respectfully and careful not to touch or disturb the polite conversation other than with the occasional clinking as you twirl. The atmosphere is free and easy now, and you can’t resist giving them something to watch. The breaths of wind make the veils dance around you. You wear nothing beneath. Flowery speech flows, words of gratitude and praise… over-exaggerated, but not empty. The director is indeed grateful to have you, and hearing him tell Tarkin so makes you prouder than you’re comfortable admitting. If they’d only stop talking soon. It’s good to see them get on for once, but still…

Tarkin’s eyes on your scarce clothes thrill you. He caresses you with his gaze as he speaks, staring as if he could will a peek underneath the sheer material. Krennic’s are smouldering ember.

“To peace and order,” he says, lifting his glass.

“Peace and order,” Tarkin replies. You watch his lips as he drinks, wishing they were on you instead.

You refill their glasses several times, playfully darting to the side whenever a hand comes too near. The director smirks at first, then becomes red in the face as the game seems to continue beyond his comfort level. His eyes flash dangerously, but you continue to evade him, excited to see how far he’ll allow you to go. Tarkin catches you eventually, his long arm winding around your thighs.

“Your concubine is overly elusive, Director,” he says as he holds you close.

“She needs to be taught a lesson,” Krennic growls.

“She needs to be given a reason to stay,” Tarkin replies calmly. He turns his face towards you and suddenly his mouth closes around your nipple. It is wholly unexpected and you yelp. He withdraws, smirking. “Now, let me see… these,” he says as he tugs the veils apart to reveal your upper body. He squeezes your tits with eager fingers, weighs them in his hands and make them bounce gently against his face. His expression is blissful.

His puckered lips slide onto your nipple again, nibbling delicately. Krennic winds his arm around your thighs from the other side and sucks your other nipple in between his lips, lapping sloppily.

You are entirely caught between them and the intense emotion goes to your head. You start giggling and stop only when one of them lands a slap to your backside.

“Sorry, sir,” you say.

“Be good,” Krennic warns and lets go of you. “Go sit with our guest.”

Tarkin’s lap is the only seat available and he welcomes you, closing his legs to allow you to sit sideways across his thighs. One arm steadies your back, but the other caresses your thigh underneath the skirt. You spread your legs willingly, wanting more, but he cups your breast instead, squeezing gently but insistently as his mouth is on the other one, kissing and pinching.

Krennic is staring. His glass is in one hand while he sips, the other rubs his groin. You moan at the erotic sight, staring back at him over Tarkin’s head. You wet your lips and he _whimpers_. His hand rubs his cock in earnest now. You feel yourself clenching and press your thighs together. Your fingers start to wander, you need to touch, need to rub between your legs, now.

Tarkin notices, of course.

“You forget yourself,” he admonishes and places your hands on his shoulders. His free hand is on you knee now, so unsatisfying. Slowly his fingertips begin an unhurried journey along the silken path of your inner thigh. You shiver from his touch, so torturously light. Arching your back, you strain to manoeuvre him to where you want it. Immediately, his hand goes back to your knee.

“Patience,” he whispers into your ear. “Show the director that you are able to control yourself.”

“Sorry. Your Excellency.” The title seems to not affect him, but Krennic moans.

This time, as Tarkin’s fingertips travel upwards, your breath hitches, but you remain still. Only when he nudges your thighs you open them for him. You are rewarded with two fingers pressing on your clit, circling it while applying sweet pressure. You clutch his shoulders and keen, unable to hold back at the intense pleasure. Tarkin spreads your legs wider, making you half recline in his lap. He sticks one long finger between your nether lips and then plunges it into you, hard and deep. Krennic groans at the sight. Tarkin keeps silent, but his mouth is open and you can feel the evidence of his arousal against your thigh.

“Please, more, Your Excellency,” you beg, and he adds another finger, at the same time as the pad of his thumb presses against your core.”Pleeeaaase.”

“Tell me you are ready for me,” he whispers in your ear, lips so close they flutter against your skin. “Tell me you are ready to be taken by your master.”

“Oh yes, please, fuck me now.”

“Director,” Tarkin remarks coolly, “you see what a little encouragement can do.”

Krennic only nods, he doesn’t seem to have it in him any longer to bite back.

“Go ahead,” he mumbles faintly, “just do it, now, or I will.”

“Tssk, Director. Patience. May I suggest we retire to the bedroom?” Krennic makes an inarticulate sound of displeasure and rises reluctantly, while Tarkin adds, caressing your hair, “Concubine or not, I don’t intend to have her on the floor. We are gentlemen, after all.”

He has you stand up, waiting while Krennic moves to sit on the bed, half reclining against the headboard. His shirt is dishevelled now, and his cock out of his uniform trousers.

Tarkin still looks composed. His cheeks are a hue pinker, and there’s a little more life to his eyes than usual, but otherwise he appears unmoved.

“I appreciate your selfless gesture of inviting me play,” he says, “but surely there was something in particular you had in mind of viewing?”

“Bend her over the bed,” the director growls, brushing his fingers against his length before burying his hands in the sheets.

Rather than doing that, Tarkin has you stand on your hands and knees on the bed, between Krennic’s legs, but without touching him. His cock is in front of your face, just out of reach. You watch, wanting, waiting… listening for any sound of Tarkin undressing. Instead, it is your belt he unfastens. The coins jingle against each other as his arms come around your waist. His breath is hot against your neck while he fumbles with the belt. His hands, so close to your breasts and your mound, yet refusing to touch. You whimper when the belt comes off and the veils slip off your body, teasing their skin as they go.

Tarkin’s finger drags along your spine, making you arch your back and lift your rump. He runs his hands along your sides, your thighs, your shoulders. You can almost hear him smirk as you tremble from his touch.

Then, finally, he’s behind you. His cock glides along your folds, pushing and teasing and then, at last, he fills you with a snap of his hips. He holds still for a moment, breathing heavily. “Director,” he says, “your _concubine_ feels exquisite.”

“Then fuck her, dammit!” Krennic looks as desperate as you feel.

“Pleeeaaase,” you keen, catching his gaze. You hold it as Tarkin begins to thrust into you, stroking your insides with exquisite, even strokes, measured and long… slow… deep. It’s so good it’s making you sob. You sink to your elbows, holding on to Krennic’s legs for some sort of comfort.

“Yeeesss,” he hisses. “Such a good girl, such a sweet…ah…” Your breath hitches as Tarkin goes faster, and your needy expression seems to affect Krennic as well. Tarkin’s powerful thrusts push you up against Krennic and only his grip around your thighs holds you in place. You whimper with each thrust… so ready… so close…

A hard grip in your hair drags you up, up, up until you are standing on your knees. Fully exposed, speared on Tarkin’s cock, with his fingers in your mouth and his other hand thrumming your clit. As you fall apart before his eyes, Krennic pinches the base of his cock.

“Ride him,” Tarkin commands after pulling out. “Show him how grateful you are to serve him.”

You slither in between Krennic’s legs, caressing his cock with your face until he’s moaning loudly again. The taste of him is salty in your mouth, his moans delightful. And Tarkin is watching. That thought is intoxicating, and you would put on a show for him, but the director is so very ready, and you _need_ him.

Only he can fill the gaping hole in your heart, the longing for him that hasn’t been lessened by Tarkin’s ministrations, only stoked. What you need is not one or the other, but both. Something sweet, something bitter. One whose whims you love to satisfy, the other in control at all times. Either that is the truth you’ve been searching for, or you’re just horny and inebriated. You look into the director’s eyes and it doesn’t matter anymore. Need. Want. Must have. You suck the head into your mouth a last time, reeling with how it makes his eyes glaze over, and then you straddle him.

He grabs you momentarily, rams his cock into you with his hand when you don’t do it fast enough. His groan as you envelop him goes straight to your core. “Come here,” he hisses as he pulls you closer, until your chest is flush with his. Then he lies still, panting. You notice how he turns to stare and you look in that direction as well. The sight is as enticing as terrifying. Tarkin, now undressed, is standing beside the bed with a jar in one hand. The fingers of the other glisten in the subdued light. You _know_ what it’s for and you whimper, hiding your face against the director’s neck.

“Shhh, my concubine,” he whispers in a strained voice, petting your hair gently. “This will be good. The Grand Vizier has come to claim his prize.” You whimper again, but he feels you clench around him, and he chuckles. “My obedient concubine, so good.” He bucks up into you and you gasp with the suddenness of it. You need more… “Please,” you whine, to anyone, to both of them.

The mattress dips and another set of fingers is in your hair, then caresses your back soothingly at the same time as a digit begins to prod your puckered entrance. You cry out, but push back at the same time, and now it is Tarkin making a sound as he continue to probe you. It’s only a grunt, but you can imagine him looking pleased and that is enough. The director rocks you from beneath and your arousal climbs again, higher, then higher still.

By the time Tarkin’s stiff member breaches you, you are long past anything but begging. So full, so filled… and then they begin to mo-o-o-ve. High-pithed cries echo in the room and they’re yours and you don’t care, it’s so much, and it doesn’t stop and you don’t want it to stop ever ever ever and then Krennic comes, and he crushes you against his chest and growls in your ear as you clench around both of them and Tarkin is still moving and then… then… he stills with a single grunt and his seed fills you. Then you are all in a heap on the bed, soaking in the after-glory, and it is filthy and sloppy and wonderful.

Tarkin is the first to untangle. You register how he picks up his clothes and you nudge the director.

“Please, sir, can he stay for breakfast?”

“If you take care of us both, my insatiable concubine.” He is smirking and you love it, and him.

“Please,” you ask Tarkin, cocking your head.

He shakes his head and says in his clipped, professional voice. “Much as I’d like to stay, I will take my leave now and spare us all a very awkward morning. I thank you both for you generosity tonight. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly.” The hint of a smile as he leaves the room is enough to warm you through an entire winter.

“The pleasure is ours,” Krennic manages to mumble, lifting his head in a final effort before he passes out. He looks happy, even while he snores. He’s such a mess, you note lovingly. With some effort, you manage to get him out of his boots and trousers without waking him. You leave the shirt on, and cover his bottom half with a sheet. You can’t resist kissing his forehead, whispering silently how much you love him.

Then, you join Tarkin in the shower. He is just reaching for a towel, but steps back into the stream of water, and when you hand him the soap, he takes the cue and lathers your back, all the way down and below, gently. You lean into his touch, melting against him until the water is suddenly icy against your skin.

“Enough,” he says calmly and turns the water off. He is half-hard in spite of the cold. “This had better stop unless you want me to take you against that wall.”

“Maybe I do.” You hold your breath, challenging him with your gaze. You shouldn’t, and yet, this may be the last time you see him like this. As a man, rather than rank and office.

“Do you, now,” he snarls. The veins on his arms stand out as he dries himself. “Some fine concubine you are, taking advantage of your master’s indisposition.”

“Then punish me, Grand Vizier.”

His hand grabs your hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your face up. The kiss is searing. You claw at his back, hard, while desperately crashing your teeth against his, altering between fighting the kiss and sucking his tongue while he backs you against the nearest wall.

Your wet skin slams against it, then you feel him lifting your leg, pressing you against the wall and pushing you up just enough to press into you without further preparation. None is needed. Your head is swimming with lust and a few hard thrusts is all it takes to bring you over the edge together.

Afterwards, he turns his head, back to the mirror, to examine the damage. The marks are fading already.

Back in uniform, he strikes a forbidding appearance. Handsome, unapproachable, again so far above you that the intimacy you just shared is unthinkable. There is no softness in his expression now, but you remember his smile. And you feel… you need to tell him…

“I…” you say, suddenly not knowing what to do with your hands. Touching him now seems inappropriate somehow. “I –“

“Don’t. Come morning, you will be less fond of me. Goodnight, Ensign.”

“Grand V…Moff, I mean. Governor. Sorry, sir.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A couple of short stories will turn up on my Tumblr over the week (link in the previous chapter), and the next chapter of this story will be ready for posting some time during the next weekend. See you then!


	11. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after brings unsettling news, and your services are desired for a high-ranking visitor.

The next morning, in spite of the not too early shuttle departure, Director Krennic is in an awful mood, hungover and morose.

Your comm beeps when you are in his office, just having placed an insanely large cup of caf in front of him, and before you’ve had opportunity to offer him the other service customarily provided at the beginning of your work-day.

“I’m sorry, sir, I need to go. The governor wants me.”

“I’m sure he does,” Krennic grunts. “He wants his dick sucked, too. You won’t do that. You won’t even touch him. That’s an order. Do you hear me?”

“Of course, sir. I won’t. I want only you.” The ugly little lie is out before you even notice. You smile at him regretfully, now honestly desiring to make up for the lapse as soon as possible. “I’d stay, but you know I can’t. I’ll be back in a minute, before you even finish that cup.”

By the time you reach the governor’s office, your heart is in your throat. You honestly cannot say how you feel about him now, after the night on Scarif. The desire is still there, that much is clear, but his unforgiving demeanour upon leaving has put a lid on it. Control.

 “I have a new assignment for you,” the governor states nonchalantly as you approach him. He is standing by the bookshelf behind his desk, examining something in his hand.

“Sir,” you ask with caution, halting your steps. “Does this mean I am no longer assigned to Director Krennic?” You knew this moment would come, but it is much too soon.

“You will remain his assistant for the time being.” He sets the statuette back and turns to face you. “This is additional.”

“Oh.” Your gaze glides to his crotch. Despite the director’s misgivings, the governor doesn’t appear to be in imminent need of help in that regard.

“Don’t stare at me like that, Ensign. It is uncouth. The service I require of you is not _personal_.”

“Oh.” You felt your cheeks heat. So much for trying to be discreet.

“Disappointed, Ensign?”

“Of course not, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Liar.” Hands clasped at his back, he circles you, making you turn to look at a holographic image projected on the far wall. “Do you recognise this officer, Ensign?”

How could you not? You had never met him, but there was only one face like that in the Imperial navy. “It’s Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir.”

“Indeed. He is scheduled to arrive in two days’ time, to familiarise himself with our progress. He will be nothing but overwhelmed by our success.”

“I’ve heard he’s difficult to impress, sir.”

“In this case, the rumours are correct. Nevertheless, he will be met with the utmost hospitality, regardless of any feelings one may harbour towards one of his kind.”

“Of course, sir. I’m not prejudiced, I think.”

“Very good. Then I trust you to carry out this assignment with the necessary discretion and confidence.”

“Um… what is it you want me to do, sir?”

“Is that not obvious, Ensign? Trail along when Krennic shows the grand admiral around, make yourself useful, extend _any_ services you offer the director to our guest as well.”

“Sir, do you mean I should bed him?”

“Unless he outright declines I would have thought that obvious.”

“Forgive me, sir, but this task is contradictory to the main one I have been given. The director will not be happy.”

“You will just have to try harder to please him, then. Furthermore, the command to warm the grand admiral’s bed will come from him.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, Ensign. Dismissed.”

As you leave the governor to his own thoughts, you can’t resist casting a last glance on the compelling image on the wall. The gold on his shoulders fill you with a sense of dread. 

 “Bloody medbay denied me again,” the director gripes the moment you stick your head into his office. “And there’s nothing to drink here.”

“Sorry, sir. That just means we’ll have to resort to other methods for making you feel better, doesn’t it?” You bite your lip. It’s silly how even in this state he makes your heart skip a beat.

“Do it.”

“It’ll be better if you lie down. Sir.”

Having him stretched out on the sofa, you go for his face first, peppering his forehead, cheeks and chin with little kisses. His hand catches your wrist when you try to open his belt, but after some coaxing, he allows it. The tunic is parted as well and you kiss a trail from his chest all the way down to his navel.

His ragged breathing kindles more heat in you. You are so relieved to still be with him, not only allowed, but even commanded to lavish him with attention. His face looks peaceful now, at rest. You lay your head on his belly, enjoying his hand in your hair as you feel his chest lift and sink with his breathing. Your fingers go to his crotch and he sucks in his breath.

The material of his trousers is not your favourite taste, but watching his reaction as you attempt to mouth him through them is.

“Desperate bitch,” he says fondly, awe apparent in his voice.

“I want you, sir,” you tell him, truthfully. “Please, may I?”

“What, my dove.” You know he loves this.

“May I please suck your cock, Director?”

He groans, and the tent of his trousers lifts even more. “Do it, you sweet, filthy thing.”

“Thank you, sir.” You kiss the back of his hand, immediately regretting it as his fist in your hair makes it harder to open his fly. Experience wins, and you pump his length roughly a couple of times before inserting the head between your lips.

***

The following day, Director Krennic is back to his normal mood, if anything, he’s in a more heightened state.

“We will have a visitor,” he declares. “The Emperor has noticed my efforts and will send his pet grand admiral to witness my success.”

“I’m happy for you, director.”

“As you should be, my dove. And seeing how useful you’ve been to me, it’s only fitting that he’ll get a taste of that as well.”

“Sir?”

“He’s reportedly interested in human customs, still learning, it seems, even after all his years among us. I’ve found one that ought to please him. You’ll make a suitable guide.”

“Sir, what custom is this?” The director’s expression very much reminded you of when he’d told you the legend about the creatures in the tidal pools on Scarif.

“Bed-warming.”

“Excuse me?”

“Trust me, this was once widely practiced in several core worlds. Visiting knights would be offered a maid in their bed, to fight cold weather and loneliness. This will be perfect.”

You could hardly believe your ears. “Will you not be jealous, sir?”

“Oh,” he gestured magnanimously, “one may have to sacrifice a little now and then for the comfort of one’s guests. It will leave him with a very favourable memory of his visit.” He seemed to remember something. “You don’t mind, my dove, do you? You’re always obedient to me.”

“I don’t know, sir,” you said hesitantly. “I don’t know him at all.”

“You’ll accompany me when I show him the station. That should be enough of an introduction. He may look a bit unusual, but it’s not like he’s frigging Tarkin. You managed old sour-face so well, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir. I will do as you command.”

“I knew it. Good girl. Now, accompany me to my quarters and show me how you plan to entertain the grand admiral.”

“But sir, it’s barely past midday!”

“We must do what we must, in the name of science.” He smiles and holds out his arm, and you have no choice but to take it. Not that you mind, at all.

***

When the grand admiral has arrived, Director Krennic demonstrates the station with all the passion of a proud parent. He is superb in this role, pointing out every obscure design detail and telling about it in a way that makes it reveal and shine in all its ingenuity. Governor Tarkin keeps in the background, the ever-critical observer. He occasionally steps in to add a sinister word. This is a military installation, after all, a weapon of destruction. Not the luxury leisure cruiser the director occasionally makes it sound like.

Grand Admiral Thrawn listens and watches, calm and collected. He appears curious and ask many questions, always accepting the answers with a nod. You try not to stare at him too much, but it is difficult. Part-way into the tour, he reaches for your hand and, with a small bow, tucks it under his arm.

You are shocked at the proximity, but calmed by how very normal and ordinary his arm feels under your hand. His other hand pats yours reassuringly.  “Please, proceed,” he tells Krennic calmly. The director hasn’t noticed the interruption. He’s already far ahead of you, sending his cape flying with his sweeping gestures. Watching him isn’t a bad substitute at all, and just the way he smooths back his hair makes your heart flutter.

The dinner the governor has arranged for his high-ranking guest is only for officers. Real officers. This realisation stings, even though you have to admit, once the brunt of it has passed, that it’s nice to have some time to yourself while you prepare for seeing the grand admiral again.

If he is surprised to find you naked in his bed, it doesn’t show. He removes his tunic calmly, hanging it into a wardrobe before addressing you.

“Your presence puzzles me, Ensign.”

“I’m to provide company for you, should you wish it, sir.”

“I appreciate the gesture. Thank you. I am, however, not well versed in social small talk and would prefer solitude at this time.”

This is not only disappointing; it’s a disaster. “Sir, allow me to explain; perhaps you are unaware of this custom,” you plead to his thirst for knowledge, “but bed-warming is an ancient human tradition.” You can tell his interest is piqued now. His eerie gaze is focused on you and you continue, without blinking. “A companion for the night is offered as the supreme sign of hospitality, indicating the host’s utmost respect for the guest.”

 “I presume I am expected to take advantage of you, and that declining to do so would reflect badly on your service as well as my own reputation.”

“The decision is yours, sir.”

“I do not particularly enjoy having my choice taken from me. I am, however, the guest here and as such will gracefully accept the gifts bestowed upon me by the hosts. You may stay.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He sits down on the bed and removes his boots, then his trousers, revealing long, powerful legs. He lays a small dagger on the nightstand, then slips it into his pocket again.

“Somehow I don’t believe you will attempt to assassin me in my sleep.”

“Of course not, sir.”

As he continues to undress, he treats you to the view of a muscular chest and pronounced abs. His build appears somewhat sturdier than that of most humans, but it may simply be a personal feature. He looks incredibly strong and decidedly more fit than the director, although he must be of at least that age to hold his elevated position. His hair is jet black, though, not a strand of any lighter colouring anywhere on his body.

The grand admiral interrupts your perusal of physique with a question, just as you were about to watch him remove his briefs, impeccably white like the rest of his garments.

“Allow me to ask you, Ensign, precisely what does your position on the station entail?”

“I am Director Krennic’s assistant.” His silent, assessing gaze is unnerving. “I provide some intimate services to him as well,” you add after some hesitation.

“You enjoy this, and yet admitting so fills you with… shame?” He chooses this moment to divest himself of the last garment, clearly unfazed.  You can’t resist a glance to his crotch. The stakes of this negotiation just doubled.

“You must know, Grand Admiral,” you reply, dragging your gaze back to his face, “that humans have nothing but contempt for paid sex.”

“Admittedly, illogical as it is. You did not choose this path for financial gain, nor out of desperation.”

“It was duty, sir. I was given an offer, and I chose to accept.”

“You willingly took upon you to occupy an unpopular position that would appear unfavourable to others, for sake of the greater good? This is honourable.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You and the director are lovers,” he declares as he gets into the bed, covering his lower half with the sheet.

“Sir, that concept requires emotional investment on some level. And it has to be mutual.”

“He is the one who commanded you to provide this service to me?”

You nod. “I would very much like to do so. And not only because it was an order.” You smile and tentatively lay a hand on his forearm, not daring to go any further than that without express invitation.

“I see,” he says, directing his unnerving gaze to your hand. You snatch it back immediately, cradling it as if burnt. “I would be most appreciative if you would refrain from applying any seductive procedures that may be customary. You may stay, and make sure this bed is of a reasonable temperature.”

“Thank you, Grand Admiral.” You have been duly chastised. “I’ll do my best not to disturb your sleep.”

“One more thing before we sleep. There is no need for titles in this situation.”

“As you command, sir.”

“You may call me Thrawn.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that, s-.”

“Try.”

“Then… Thrawn,” you say softly, careful to imitate his pronunciation to your best ability, “would you just hold me, please?”

“You still desire intimacy with me?”

“Very much, s- Thrawn.”

He ponders that in silence, saying nothing more, but he moulds his body to yours from behind. His arm rests around your waist. You can’t help but stare at his hand. The colour is less vibrant in the subdued light, but the difference is still glaring, no, intriguing. And beautiful. His hot breath against the nape of your neck is soothingly normal. Your backside fits perfectly against his lap. You sigh, fighting to ignore the stirring inside of you. If only he’d let you touch him.

“Lights out,” he commands softly, and for a while only the glow of his eyes, now more mysterious than frightening, is discernible. He pulls you closer and you sigh again. You lay your hand on top of his and he lets you keep it there. It may be a small one, but it is a victory.

You drift between sleep and wake, his continued proximity stirring your interest even more as you relax. At some time during the night you wake to fingertips ghosting your side, your belly, and desire builds fast in you. His lips nibble at your neck as his hand begins to gently knead your breast. You push back against him.

“You are awake,” he states. “I find myself desiring to enjoy your offer after all. You are amenable, I believe.” The glowing eyes glitter as he leans over you. The softness of his lips against your shoulders makes you hold your breath, yearning for more. It is the nape of your neck he touches next, still lightly, but …wet? His tongue darts out, tasting, and then he nibbles. All the while, you lie still, luxuriating in the undemanding touches, in how he appears to enjoy exploring you, too.

He moves even closer, his very erect manhood pressing against your backside, only long enough to let you know his state. To tease. Then that delightful sensation is gone, but instead his hand comes between your thighs from behind, still lightly, but with a purpose. The questing fingertip strokes your soft flesh, edging further in, towards your warm, wet slit. You don’t make it easy for him, not until you can’t stand it anymore and lift your upper leg, just enough for his hand to come between. His lips are on your shoulder again, and his fingers glide over your backside, trace your inner thighs, dance a maddening pattern of evasion. You open wider, shamelessly displaying your puffed up, needy pussy.

At this, he chuckles, but he complies. A digit, no two, trace the soaking path between your thighs, all the way, dipping into your wetness before continuing on, smearing the gathered liquid onto your aching, swollen nub. He circles it gently, masterfully touching you, obviously knowing how sensitive it is. You encourage him with little whimpers until his breathing becomes ragged. He moves to kneel at your feet, nudging your limbs until he has you nearly in his lap, still curled up on your side. Then he enters you, sideways from behind. He feels incredibly thick like this, just barely able to press into you.

“Lights, ten percent,” he murmurs, and you are finally able to see him. His face appears unmoved, creating an even bigger contrast to the raw emotion in his eyes. They are a lighter red now, burning so intensely that they threaten to singe his lashes. Lust-hazed nonsense like that course thorough your mind as you look up at him, slack-mouthed, wide-eyed… reduced to this writhing mess, yearning for him to continue to create these sensations in you, or to make it stop, this… ah…

He reaches for your face, moves a strand of hair that hangs into your eye, strokes your sweaty forehead. He traces your cheek and you lean into his hand. Then his digits are in your mouth and his lips curl, then part in a grin as you suckle them.

“Instruct me,” he says, putting his hand back onto your hip. “Tell me how you like it. Harder, perhaps?”

“Mmmnng.” How can he expect you to talk while he’s doing that?

“Like that? Oh, even harder still?” You nod, and nod again, hardly registering his words, but at this point, nothing could be bad, as long as he’d just go on.

“I am pleased to oblige,” he says, drawing your gaze to his face again. “I… feel… myself…warming… up… to… this… custom… very… ah… quickly.”

He looks so glorious like that, his neutral expression finally beginning to dissolve. It makes you giddy and you would laugh, but only a broken resemble of it comes out.

“Yes,” he says, letting out a strangled chuckle of his own. “Let them hear it. Let them hear how I am enjoying the generosity.” You moan loudly at that, imagining Tarkin listening with a scowl on his face. “Let them know I am using you well.” His voice is deeper now, a humming low in his throat and it turns you on just as much as his words.

“Oh please,” you moan, “oh don’t stop, oh please, ah-a-aa-”

“I am not in a hurry.”

The motion stops, then begins again, and he keeps you like that, on the verge, thrusting shallowly but with force, touching you wonderfully, yet not quite enough.

He slips out of you and you ease onto your stomach, enjoying the brief stretch of your legs before you lift up for him. Just your backside; your front remains lowered, your arms over your head, resting against the mattress. Your face is turned towards him.

“You choose this.” His voice is even now, but his gaze holds a question.

Come on, you reply in your thoughts. Take me already, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it. Enough of softness, you need it good now. Even if you’re not going to tell him that out loud. You whimper instead, and press back against his hand when he touches you. He understands. At last convinced of your choice he positions himself behind you and slams into you with a force that would send you half-way into the headboard if he didn’t hold your hips.

The bed creaks in time with his thrusts, protesting as much as you urge him on. His body is a delicious weight against your back, his arms caging you in protectively from the sides as he changes his angle. This is… so… ngghhh. You collapse under him, holding your hips up only the bare minimum needed for access. His head is right beside yours now, panting in tandem with you as he rocks into you in a slower pace that makes you sob with how perfect the universe is.

Your keening whines intersperse with a loud growl from him. “Now.” His voice is barely a whisper in your ear, yet it tears through your lust-hazed state. It is a command uttered confidently, resistance unthinkable. It demands to be heard.

He slams his hips against you and then holds you still while tremor shakes him violently. When it has passed, he flings himself on his back with a final growl of satisfaction that turns into a purr when you creep close to him.

“Stay.”

“Thank you. The mornings here can be a bit chilly, they say.”

“I am fortunate.” His eyes glow fainter now, softer. Less threatening, if still eerie. Little suns when you close your own eyes. Sleep comes easily, embracing you with soft darkness.

Thrawn is still in deep slumber when you awake to the sight of a glorious hard-on. The sheet is tented to the point of looking ridiculous and you cannot possibly resist taking a peek beneath, nor can you refrain from touching with both hands and lips.

“You decided to take an initiative,” he declares when you’re licking the evidence of his pleasure from his skin. “I am pleased.”

“You felt cold. It’s my duty to keep you warm.”

“Proceed.”

He is already ready for you to mount him, and the sensation as you take him in slowly is incredible. You reach your climax fast, as much from his clever fingertips as from watching this strange and powerful creature coming undone beneath you.

You slip out of the room early in the morning, before the sound of his breathing can become too familiar.

At the official breakfast in the mess hall, you are content to simply listen and observe from your place at the director’s side. Regardless of the grand admiral’s earlier words about small talk it is obvious that he has learnt a lot about politics. He elegantly evades both Tarkin’s covert probing and Krennic’s bold attempts to get an opinion of the station out of him. It is the highest form of entertainment. You don’t speak with him again until he’s about to leave.

“You have extended great kindness to a stranger,” he tells you, “much beyond duty. Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, Thrawn. Honestly. I wouldn’t have dared to even think of approaching you if it hadn’t been my duty to do so. I’m very happy it was.”

“So am I. I bid you farewell now, but, should our paths cross again in the future, it will please me.” His eyes meet yours, scrutinizing. “Your involvement with Grand Moff Tarkin requires further pondering,” he adds. “As for Director Krennic, it is clear. You _are_ lovers.”

It’s odd how a man known for his observation and deduction skills can be so mistaken. But then, he specialises in warfare, not interpersonal relationships.

He cocks his head. “Your expression indicates disbelief, Ensign. Do you question the verdict of a superior?”

“Sometimes I do, sir.”

“Excellent.”

This is when the governor approaches, resting an elegant hand on your shoulder that makes you discreetly melt into the background.

“Has everything been to your …satisfaction, Grand Admiral?”

“Indeed, Governor. I am most pleased with the comforts provided during this visit. Most pleased indeed. I will let the Emperor know of your hospitality.”

“And how did you find the station?” It’s Krennic who butts in the question, breathlessly waiting, embarrassingly eager for praise. Tarkin purses his lips, but the grand admiral appears unconcerned.

“An impressive weapon, Governor, Director.” He bows slightly, before continuing. “I am, however, still not convinced of the wisdom in allocating such a vast amount of resources to a single project.”

“You will be, Grand Admiral,” says Tarkin hurriedly, holding Krennic back with the gesture of a fingertip. “Its power as a deterrent will by far compensate for any limits in reach. With time, it will significantly lessen the need to chase down terrorists and insurgents by more conventional means.”

“I bow to the Emperor’s will, of course.”

“Naturally. Good hunting, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter :) Thanks for reading! 
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://perfecttimemachinestranger.tumblr.com/)


	12. Deus in machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos and confusion all around; help comes from an unexpected direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the end. There’ll still be smut, but the Director’s happy days are over. I’m sorry. He will be compensated in another story.

“I will not fail!”

Director Krennic’s angry cry is loud enough to echo through the walls as you pass by Tarkin’s office. The atmosphere has been tense for days, which is perhaps only to be expected with two so very different people having to share the same, albeit vast, space. And now, with the project’s end in sight, they are both near the breaking point. The governor doesn’t trust the director to focus enough, being too easily distracted. This may be true. And the director detests being watched over like a child. This is definitely the truth. It brings out a rebellious streak in him, a need to challenge the governor at any possibility. The director’s hot ire against the governor’s icy resolve.

Tarkin is stronger, Krennic must know this as well. And yet you admire his will to fight, his drive, his resolve to create something enormous and powerful and beautiful. The battle station isn’t just a weapon to him. It’s his ticket to fame and glory, his chance to have what he covets the most – recognition from the Emperor. It’s so close now, almost tangible. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s visit was a raging success and that ought to mean something even to him. The great ruler must have a lot on his plate, and yet you wish that he would get to this sooner. Even for a man of this magnitude, the final fulfilment of what he commissioned so many years ago should mean something. Shouldn’t it make him, if not happy, then at least proud? Still, there has been no word from him.

Heavy footsteps are heard from the other side of the door and you make yourself busy, pretending to notice for the first time the ancient paintings on the wall. They are another point of disagreement between your two superiors. The aesthetics are important to Krennic, the indiscriminate mix of old and new jarring. Tarkin values tradition for its own sake. Krennic finds the keepsakes of the hereditary rich to be a slap in the face. Both their views are understandable. The paintings are still fascinating.

The door opens to eject one gloriously agitated director. He looks frightening in his rage, his jaw set, fists clenched, his expression murderous. And you love him.

“Director Krennic?” you say softly. “Director, is there anything I can do for you?” This usually sets him on a track of lascivious thoughts that perk him up, even if he’s not at liberty to engage in them straight away.

“Not now, woman!” His bellowing makes you shy away from him and he makes a face, but manages to restrain himself. He hesitates, then puts his hand under your chin. “When I come back,” he says in a low, but strained voice, “I’ll lock us up in my quarters for a week and fuck you senseless. Now, my priorities are different.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good.” He squeezes your chin, then turns on his heels. “I’ll get my hands on that traitor,” he shouts, departing, “You just wait!”

The door to Tarkin’s office has been left ajar. Not a sound comes from within. It is too much of a temptation to resist, and you chance to take a peek. The governor is standing behind his desk, supporting himself against the desktop with one hand, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are closed.

“Shut the door behind you, Ensign.”

You do as you are told, unsettled by the weariness of his voice. You dare not approach him.

His eyes fly open, steely grey piercing you. “Come here,” he commands, crooking his finger.

“The time has come for you to decide your further path. Regardless of the outcome of the director’s current mission, the construction phase is over and his personal happiness is no longer of any consequence to me.” He makes a face. “Should he choose to drink himself into oblivion, that’s his choice and will only remove him from my presence the sooner.”

You stare at him, shocked.

“I see,” he declares. “I have been more open with my views than intended. You have come to care for him. Well, you may have him if you like. I would not recommend it, but the choice is yours. The position I promised you when you first arrived is available, should you choose to accept.”

Your brain shut down somewhere in the middle, and all you hear is a weird offer to somehow take care of the director. “Have him, sir?”

“You may follow him to wherever his next assignment will be. Director Krennic’s presence here in his previous capacity is no longer necessary, nor is it desired. I have assumed control of the station.”

This is when you realise that you still hate him. Those words about your director is all it takes for the brittle surface of civility to burst and the cocktail of barely suppressed feelings to gush out. He disgusts you with his pettiness and his need for control. Ungrateful, insensitive, lecherous old man, so eager to use people to his own advantage only to cast them aside when it suits him. And you, you were so eager to let him use you, you craved the humiliation. You crave it now. His display of unstoppable power arouses you, and you hate this, and him, and yourself.

You just stand there, unable to run, or defy him. You just swallow, staring at him as he stares back.

“Calm yourself, Ensign,” he says after an eternity has passed. “I recommend that you consider your options carefully before you make your decision. I daresay you have some talent. It would be a pity to see a promising career choked before it could begin. Do not tie yourself to an old man.”

“He’s a lot younger than you. And you are still virile. Sir.”

“Be careful with your words.”

His voice goes straight to your core, unbidden. It’s just a reaction to stress, you tell yourself. Your body perceives him as a threat, and chooses to submit. Memories of your last intimate encounter swim through your head. How strong he had been, how very vigorous in his response to a challenge.

One look at him confirms that he knows exactly what you are thinking about. You let out an undignified whimper, ready to faint from mortification and lust. He closes the distance between you then, stopping only when he violates your personal space. You start trembling already when he slowly lifts his hand, and by the time his mouth is on yours, you are shaking like a leaf. No-no-no-no-no, your mind screams. You cannot betray your love like this.

His lips are demanding, but warm. His thin shoulders are the support offered at this time, and you cannot resist accepting what comfort is offered.

“Go now,” he croaks, “before this goes out of hand.”

You back out of his embrace and turn away, hurrying towards the door, needing to get out before your tears begin to spill.

Rather than going straight to your quarters, you roam the station aimlessly, walk and walk, at every turn choosing the hallway with the least occupants. Only when you reach a section that is closed to you do you turn back, in search for the next crossroads or turbolift. When finally you reach a dead-end, an unpopulated area wedged between a block of deserted conference rooms and a long stretch of guest quarters, it is almost a relief to have to stop.

There is a modest viewport, but no furniture. You sink to the floor, content to rest with your back against the wall. The view is beautiful. Scarif. Is that where the director is? Had he made some important omission that he set off to rectify? Or is his current mission a more sinister one? Recalling his last words makes you smile through tears. You wipe the taste of the governor from your lips. Never again. You _will_ set your priorities straight, and you _will_ act like the officer you still hope to become.

But can you leave the director’s service even if you try? If he is stationed elsewhere, will he want you with him? How could you ask him whether he wishes you to remain when you’re not sure of the answer? And Governor Tarkin… whatever he is to you, he is something. You were a useful tool, a way to placate the director. What are you to him now? Would any of them care about you at all if not for duty’s sake?

You are torn between Krennic and Tarkin, between love and lust and the duty you owe to both and can fulfil to neither of them. You cannot decide on your own. This _is_ your decision. You will wait until the director returns, and then, after he does all the incredible things with you that he promised, you will talk. It seems a sound decision, and you cling to it whenever your thoughts start to wander. They do that a lot while you try to find your way back to any familiar part of the station.

You find yourself at a crossing of four unmarked, seemingly identical hallways when you hear laboured breathing from behind. It is the sound of some sort of machine, carrying with it an aura that is deeply unsettling. You thought at first to ask for directions. Now you want to run, afraid of what you’ll see if you turn around.

You turn slowly and reel backwards as soon as your fears are confirmed. Lord Vader towers over you, staring with unseeing eyes from the hideous mask. You press your eyes shut as if to defend them from the terror. “My lord,” you stutter. “Sir.”

A gloved hand runs over your throat. You press against the wall, beginning to hyperventilate.

“I can sense your distress.” His voice is impossibly deep, and entirely dispassionate.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” you squeak, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Please forgive me.”

“What is its cause?” You cannot tell whether he is angry or just curious.

“I… I have difficulty deciding, my lord. I know I must. I can’t go on and know I’m betraying both of them.”

“There is no choice for you.” He lifts his hand to your throat, enveloping you, forcing you to stand on your toes.

“What do you mean? My lord?” You feel how cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. Your hands wave feebly, not daring to touch him.

“The choice has been made.” The finality of his words hit you like a blaster bolt. He is going to kill you. Perhaps that is the best solution. At least you won’t have to choose.

“Please make it quick.” You close your eyes, waiting.

He presses harder. The slowness of it is maddening, and as your thoughts begin to swim, one is stronger than the others. You catch it, holding onto it until it can only escape through your mouth.

“No,” you plead. “Please don’t kill me. I want to live!” You are astounded at how easy it is to beg.

“Terminating a life is often inevitable,” he says. “Occasionally, it is entertaining.”

He cocks his head, as if pondering whether or not he is feeling a need for distraction there and then.

“You are still useful,” he concludes and loosens his grip.

Air rushes into your lungs and you cough. You long to rub your throat, but his massive hand is in the way. You swallow instead, hard and repeatedly.

“Follow the power,” he booms.

“I must choose duty? Not follow my heart?” It is strange to receive such advice from one who reportedly feeds on emotion.

“You must remain with Tarkin.”

“Is this… my destiny? My lord?” Your brain is already coming up with suggestions on how you can do both, serve under Tarkin while still seeing Director Krennic.

“If you want to live, abide by my advice.”

“Forgive me, my lord.” Decisions later. Now, there is only giddiness, a feeling of relief of salvation from great danger. Of desire to show your gratitude, the only way you are used to. “How may I … thank you, my lord? May I serve you in some way?”

He chuckles darkly. “I have no need for such services.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” You are at a loss, suddenly afraid you have hurt the fearsome man’s feelings.

He chuckles again. “I sense your need. I will ease it.” You see it clearly then, a flash of clarity in your muddled brain. He is above and beyond common physical needs and desires. A sense of awe fills you at the realisation that he still intends to relieve your stress.

His hand remains on your throat, but the other one trails down your front. You hold your breath, suddenly unable to utilize the air he allows you. His fingers pause over your mound and you take a quick breath, then hold it. He waits until can’t, until you let out a sigh. It’s either that or explode from the tension. Your body can only stay rigid for so long. Your pulse speeds up rapidly with the resumed movement of his fingers. They land on your clit, rubbing surprisingly gently over the fabric of your trousers.

Your hips cant as if by their own volition and he presses more insistently. His massive thigh nudges yours apart, and then you feel another pressure slide over your folds. You dare a glance down and see that his crotch isn’t even touching yours. He’s even standing a small space away; you are connected only by the tips of his fingers and the hand over your throat. The pressure between your legs becomes more insistent and you clench your fists impotently, unable to lift your wrists from the wall. It is eerie and weird – there is nothing there and yet you feel it slide between your folds, inserting itself into your wetness, teasing your entrance.

Against your will, you begin to moan softly, face contorting with the effort to not acknowledge what he’s doing to you. You stare into his mask, seeing only your own vague reflection. Blank where his eyes should be, an ugly muzzle for a mouth. Machine more than man, it is said. He lets out a nondescript sound that you cannot interpret. Bitterness, perhaps, or anger? Or, is it possible that he is deriving some pleasure from the situation as well? He makes the same sound again and you still cannot tell.

The invisible pressure between your legs suddenly stabs you, delving inside with a force you are unprepared for. You howl, and then your windpipe is blocked. Your head starts swimming. The black mask in front of you begins to dissolve and there is only that intense pleasure. You are panting heavily, not realising when you were allowed to breathe again, but register it now with gratefulness. Your head rolls back against the wall and you relax into his ministrations.

The hand on your throat, an iron grip, and yet it no longer fills you with fear; it is an anchor. The fingers on your clit, rubbing and teasing still, always withdrawing as soon as you press back against them. The invisible cock inside you, fucking you forcefully and filling you up, dragging incredibly against you with every stroke. You moan softly, and this time he lets you. He makes a strangled noise himself, throwing his head back. Now you know. You would smile if you were able to, if he hadn’t reduced you to a witless, slack-faced being only able of receiving. The pleasure nearly overtakes you, but then a tendril splits off from the main one and travels lower. It brushes over your perineum and inserts itself deep between your buttocks, gliding over your small opening, slick with the wetness from your cunt.

“No,” you whine, but you realize as soon as the word has left your mouth that you don’t mean it. “Please…,” you pant instead, clinging to your last remaining intellectual faculties, “Please… be… gentle.”

He is. The request seemed futile, but when the tendril enters you, it explores, rather than conquers. Any discomfort is drowned out in the massive assault on your senses and by the time you go over the edge, you are whining for him, for more.

He holds you against the wall, again touching you only with his visible hands. He lets go and you are free to move. You have no wish to. An overwhelming feeling of lightness bubbles up inside of you. Now you smile, happiness shining through your eyes. It doesn’t matter that his face is a mask. In some strange way you feel like you have been blessed.

“Thank you, my lord, sir… I think,” you blurt out when he lowers his head towards you.

 “For now, you must stay with Tarkin.” The words are somehow inside your chest, not your ears. If they are there at all.

“I hear you, my lord,” you tell him, then add, “Will it always be so?”

“You will know.”

A smaller man approaches, stopping abruptly.

“My lord,” he declares, clicking his heels, “your shuttle is ready.”

You remain staring after them for several minutes, then take the hallway that leads in the opposite direction. Soon, you recognize a location from the director’s tour for Grand Admiral Thrawn. It’s a fair distance from your customary section, but you know the way. And maybe, by the time you return, Director Krennic will already be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! In case you're interested, here's a link to [My Tumblr](https://perfecttimemachinestranger.tumblr.com/)


	13. The winner takes it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Krennic is nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon character death mentioned in this chapter. I hope this is neither too upsetting nor unexpected considering this fic roughly follows the timeline in Rogue One.

Tarkin is in the control room, standing at the weapons panel.

The director hasn’t returned yet, and after the upsetting encounter with Lord Vader you are more than eager to see him. There has to be some way to work around it, to remain in his bed even if you can’t be his assistant any longer. Surely, his skills can be put to use somewhere on the station where he and Tarkin don’t need to see each other very often. This is what you’ve come to suggest to the governor. After Vader, approaching him doesn’t seem so frightening, even when seeking him out like this.

This, however, doesn’t seem to be a good moment for a discussion of career opportunities. Tarkin’s jaw is set, a vein on his throat twitches. He is under deep stress, then. All is silent, several officers are scattered around the room, all eyes directed at Tarkin. Nobody pays you any heed. You join the group by the nearest wall, not daring to disturb, but unwilling to leave.

The governor stares out the viewport, then nods and gives a command.

“You may fire at will.”

An officer pushes the button. Red light fills the sky as the weapon ignites, and then a glorious sunset as the planet below burns. The officers cheer, but you are filled with dread. A chill like no other runs down your spine, then curls up in your belly, a heavy, icy weight. You must ask, it is inevitable.

“Pardon,” you gasp feebly, and the officers scatter to let you through to Tarkin. His hands are clasped on his back now. That vein is still twitching. His face is ashen. It really isn’t the right moment to disturb him.

“Sir?” No reaction. You move closer. “Sir?” This time he notices you. He screws up his eyes, then sighs and looks at you.

“Yes?” His voice is weary.

“Sir,” you whisper, “where is Director Krennic?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and that is all the answer you need. You start sobbing, hiding your face in your hands.

“We find ourselves at war,” Tarkin declares coldly. “Director Krennic is an unfortunate casualty. He failed to discover treachery quickly enough, and has paid for it with his life. His sacrifice and his service to the Empire will be remembered.”

You are crying harder now, embarrassing everyone but yourself. You are beyond caring. Krennic is no more. That impossible, infuriating, overly dramatic, impatient man is gone. The sense of loss is incomprehensible, and stronger for it. You didn’t even like the man, and yet you’ve come to love him. You glance at Tarkin, as stern and unforgiving as ever. The icy weight in your belly spreads through your body and simply staying on your feet requires strength that suddenly is no longer there.

“Come here,” you hear Tarkin saying softly after a while.

With an effort, you fight the haze and open your eyes, looking up towards the voice. There is nobody else in the room now. Only Tarkin. You hate him, and yet you do as he says. What else is there to do? Krennic is gone. You crawl to the governor and embrace his legs, resting your forehead on his booted feet. Stifled sobs shake your body and they grow louder when he begins to gently caress your back.

You remain like that for a long time, until your tears are ended. You gratefully accept the offered napkin, but hesitate to take Tarkin’s hand. He strokes your hair gently and eventually you relent and let him raise you up.

His gaze is suspicious. This is understandable, you wouldn’t trust yourself in this condition. Not when all is cold, and lonely, and there is something missing inside of you that will never be healed. The uniform tunic before your eyes is the wrong colour, but it is there. Hiccupping, you cling to it. The governor stands straight, letting you do so. Not touching you, nor offering any word of comfort. The silence will be filled with weeping again, unless you talk.

“I loved him,” you whisper into the green-grey tunic. “And I never told him.”

“I am sure he appreciated this.” The reply is dry, yet free of mockery.

“Which?”

“Both. Now, pull yourself together.” Hands on your upper arms, putting some distance between you. Making it less unbearable, less personal. “You are an officer and we are at war,” he continues, his speech sharp, clipped. “Personal tragedies must be laid behind us. Sentiment must not hinder our path to victory.”

A step back, and he is no longer touching you. Surprisingly, you are still standing. His rank insignia is in front of your eyes, almost glowing in the freakish light after the explosion. A reminder of who you are, whom you are with, what you are trained for. You lift your gaze to his chin, straightening your back. Mirroring the stance of your superior officer.

“No, sir.” You sound remarkably normal. Professional. Cold.

“Attention!” You move automatically, steadily staring to the front.  Remaining before him for a long period of time, straight, unforgiving, all attention directed at him, at keeping your posture, waiting for the next command. There is none, the absence of it forcing you to focus only on him. By the time you’re finally allowed to relax, exhaustion is a physical reaction.

 “It was inevitable,” he says in a low voice, the drill apparently over. “He died in honourable service, whilst defending the passion of his life. This is a grace we should all aspire to.”

It is true, and unendurable, and it will soon raze whatever fledgling mental barrier he helped you raise. “Can… can we please not talk about it anymore?”

His eyes glide over you, assessing. “You shouldn’t be alone,” he states.

“May I… may I stay with you? Sir?” You hate yourself as soon as the words have escaped your mouth. You need to be held, desperately, to be reassured that you are still alive. There is no other.

“You may.”

That night, you make love in Krennic’s big bed, passionately at first, letting go of all the stress and pain of the last couple of days. Then again, slowly. It is good, surprisingly so.

You are both naked, equal. Your half-sated body is stretched out on the sheets and he crawls onto the bed. His hands are on your thighs, nudging them apart gently before he lowers his head. Simply the idea of him, the high and mighty Grand Moff, lapping at your mixed juices is intoxicating. His lips nibble at your folds with confidence, slowly easing closer to your clit. Finding it, he swirls his tongue around, rubbing, teasing sucking. When he discovers the way that draws desperate, raw keens from you, he starts to hum. The sound vibrates throughout your body, spreads through your limbs likes some freakish elixir of happiness. You have no right to feel this glorious, and yet this realisation can’t diminish the pleasure.

Your hands in his hair, a sharp grunt from below makes you put them on his arms instead. There is this urgency now to pull him upwards, on top of you, to feel him inside. The humming begins again, and there are marvellous, skilled fingers inside of you at the same time as hot wetness caresses your clit and… and… and… you can no longer fight it and you cry out, bucking against his face and he holds you in place through your orgasm, now and then fuelling it with a well-aimed lick.

A smile spreads across your face and you almost laugh when you see his – the slack jaw and smeared face is so very uncharacteristic. Irresistible. Now, he allows you to tug at his arms, drawing him closer, up, until his arms frame your ribs. The hairs on them tickle your skin. His gaze is hungry again, a hunter with a prey in mind. You adjust your position, lifting your hips, spreading your thighs. He waits, staring maddeningly, having your full attention when he finally lowers himself, slowly sliding into your well-prepared entrance.

He growls then, low in his throat, and it sets you aglow again. Your whimpers seem to fuel his ardour, altering love-making to _taking_. If ever you longed to be conquered, it is now. You give yourself to him in complete surrender and he takes, in powerful thrusts that make you writhe and claw at his back. So good. So perfect and right and just incredibly, astonishingly good. When you come, it is together. His grunts with satisfaction continue as you curl up beside him to sleep. For now, at least, you almost feel okay.

The next day, in search of a new purpose, you report to the communications department. They greet you as heartily as professionalism allows; he must have told them.

After a few days, the pull to peek into the director’s office is impossible to ignore. A single black glove lies on the floor, a challenge. Pressing it to your nose brings back a flood of emotions, making your head spin. You stand for minutes, just breathing his scent. A single sob kills the silence and you know it’s too late. No use. You reverently put the glove on his – former – desk, laying it to rest with a few loving pats. Then, you return to your work with new fervour.

The fresh feeling of accomplishment isn’t enough to fill the hole inside of you, but it comes a decent way. You can live like this. At least, for as long as the governor allows you to fight your loneliness with him.

Then a black shape invades your dreams. It is distant at first, but it comes nearer, it is covered in a black cowl, but you don’t need to see the mask beneath. It is familiar. A buzzing sound fills your head like static, and only one discernible word. “Go.” It is said only once, but clear enough. It’s too soon, much too soon and yet, you know that you must heed the call.

The next morning, you tell Tarkin. You cannot bear to do so in bed, but wait until he is in his office.

“Governor, sir,” you address him formally.

“Yes? I take it this is a professional call?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve come to the realisation that it’s time for me to move on. I would like to leave as soon as possible. This is too…” You wipe at your eyes.

“A difficult time, undeniably. Perhaps it is indeed time for me as well to direct my full energy towards the impending victory, rather than allowing myself to be distracted by private concerns, however pleasurable.” He clears his throat. “I am proud of you, Ensign. You have carried out your duties under my command very honourably.”

Accepting his praise is as difficult as it is rewarding. This is what you always looked for, and yet it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Old insecurity rears its ugly head.

“You will let me go?” Just like that? You had expected him to be more possessive of you. More selfish.

“Of course.” He looks taken aback by your question. “Such was our agreement when you entered into your service for Krennic.”

“Then I wish to leave now. Immediately. I cannot bear to stay. Please forgive me.” The situation is fast becoming emotional, just what you hoped to avoid by holding the conversation here.

“There is no need,” he says evenly. “I wish you luck and prosperity, wherever you choose to serve. I will add my review to your service record shortly.”

“Sir, I…” It cannot be said, but it has to be. A cruel truth you came to realise only now. “I wish I had loved you instead.”

You turn away sharply, and within moments turn again and rush back into his arms. It takes a moment for him to react, but then he wraps one arm around you, and his other hand strokes your hair gently as you cry against his chest. When you are silent at last, all he says, very softly, handing you a handkerchief is “Ensign…”

You straighten up and look at him again.

“Sir.”

You salute him and leave. This time you don’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from the ABBA song with the same name, just because it seemed fitting.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end, and hope for a new beginning.

Tarkin is no more. This time, you didn’t witness the explosion. You only heard about the disastrous defeat through whispered rumours much later, when there was no longer any denying the catastrophic blow to the Empire’s military forces even in the official channels. Rather than the sharp stab that pierced you at hearing of Krennic’s demise, the pain for the Governor is a dull ache in your stomach, numbed perhaps by the massive destruction around you, if not by this already being the second time you experience the violent loss of a lover. You were lucky to escape, even if you doubt the merits of it. You learned to rely on power, and now there is none, only the chaos of hasty evacuation. Despair is everywhere.

All you have left now are your memories of the men that used to anger and appease you in equal measure. Krennic, who dared wear white and got away with almost anything. Tarkin, the ever grey and stern administrator, keeping you in line always. You smile through tears, remembering, as your fingers stray to your clit.

The guilt is massive, over masturbating to memories of dead men who will never touch you again. Yet, carnal pleasure was the overriding part of your interactions, so it’s fitting in a way. Still you hope, feeling much too young to remain forever a distraught, dishonourable widow of men who weren’t truly yours, regardless of their vows that you belonged to them. The days are busy, there’s always work to do. But the nights are filled with loneliness and longing, endless walks through deserted corridors when nightmares haunt you.

Perchance the sight before you on this particular night is no more than a dream. Lord Vader is standing at a viewport, staring at the nothingness. You are drawn to him, despite fear. In silence, you stand beside him, looking out also. Then you sink to your knees. This feels more appropriate. His breathing is even, there is no sign that he has acknowledged your presence, although he must know. Perhaps he is just in deep meditation. You take an odd comfort in his presence. The Empire rules still. That is what he means to you.

You remain like that until your knees ache too much and you prepare to rise.

“My path is unknown,” he utters gravely in that incredibly deep voice of his that seems to vibrate through your chest as you listen. Does he want you to answer? “Yours is not,” he continues, then turns on a heel and is gone in a flash of black, heavy boots thumping against the floor.

Whatever is that supposed to mean? Slowly, you move into a sitting position, then rise with the help of a hand against the glass. Your knees ache, your legs sting as blood again begins to flow unhindered. The mysterious dark lord puzzles you more than ever – there is nothing clear about your situation. A refugee, you might remain on this vessel until you are assigned duty somewhere else, unless you perish as the war rages on and on. You send a thought of gratitude to him regardless; even if his words are clouded, seeing him boosted your morale. There is still hope.

The following weeks are chaotic, but some kind of order begins to seep in, some kind of normalcy. Space is less crowded once personnel is dispatched to other duties on other vessels, and although a voice in your head whispers that this may be due to further losses and needs for replacements, the announcements of positions are plentiful. You have rarely looked at them until then, it mattering little where you serve, but one day there is one that stands out to you with its strange wording.

Position: Bed warmer  
Amount: One  
Qualifications: Open-minded human female with prior experience of this practice  
Ship: ISD Chimaera  
Commander: Grand Admiral Thrawn

Reading this instantly takes you back many months, to that brief meeting with a very different man, who taught you that different didn’t equal to bad. With hands shaking from excitement you enter your application on that same screen. You know it beyond all doubt. This is your path.

***  
The End  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Thanks for being with me - whether commenting, leaving kudos or just reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride. 
> 
> This story is complete now, but there’ll be others. I plan to finish and post a couple of one-shots over the next weeks, and the first one will be Krennic-muse’s compensation for getting the short end of the stick in this story.


End file.
